Ghosts in the Attic
by Autumn Ruby
Summary: At 25, Harry Potter didn't expect to be blind, empathic, almost a Squib, and once more dealing with Snape. But, following the events of HBP, how did he get that way? And, with that, what effect does the past have on the evil plot brewing in his present?
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: ** I own nothing associated with Harry Potter. That happy power lies with the wonderful JK Rowling and her associated publishers, etc. I'm merely borrowing to suit my own happy little needs.

**A/N:** I expect to begin with this will be confusing. This opening prologue is set in what I'm going to call the Present, whereas the next several chapters will be in the Past. The Past is the timeframe directly post-HBP, taking all events into play to help create the present you are getting a glimpse of here. This will also be eventual both slash and het. Expect HarryxGinny, HarryxDraco, and HarryxSnape, as well as RonxHermione, though the latter won't feature predominantly. The focus of the story is not on the relationships, but they _will _be present, so expect them. If you're vehemently against slash or het, I suggest you look elsewhere.

Oh. And though I say 'bar,' expect something closer to the lines of the Three Broomsticks.

Now, onto the story! In the words of the great Albus Dumbledore, "Nitwit! Oddment! Blubber! Tweak!"

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_It's interesting how much people are alike. Take away years of conditioning and environment, psychological walls and emotional barriers, and people are still people. That's something pureblood Wizarding society has never really seemed to grasp— though I doubt it has anything to do with the ability to. People are people, be they magical or Muggle, and people like to view themselves as important. Really, pride has dominated the Wizarding world for the past few centuries or so. But of course, it's not as if the Muggles have neither pride nor anything to be proud of. They've simply manifested their talents differently out of necessity. Yet even with those differences, a wizard bleeds as a Muggle bleeds, agonizes as they agonize over fiscal matters and the woes of domesticity… _

_And_, a chuckle accompanied the thought, _I find them both just as easily in my chairs, drowning their sorrows in various mixtures of ethanol. _

"Oi, barkeep, give me another, will you?" Bleary, stubborn brown eyes lifted their gaze from the polished wood of the bar, fixing their wavering, inherently impertinent stare on the tall, slender figure before them. The man blinked, wiping at his mouth with the back of a thick hand before stretching an arm out, clinking a glass tumbler against the bar's solid surface, sliding the base about the small puddle of condensation that had collected. The slight squeaks the motions created seemed to please him as he stared at the wiry, youthful bartender, taking in the other man's pale, smooth skin, offset by his perpetually disheveled raven hair, bangs grown long to shield a scar whose traces he could just barely distinguish whenever the man moved, and the deep emerald green of his long-sleeved button-down, the color matched in the fathomless depths of the bartender's beautiful, but unseeing eyes.

"Now, Robert, Meighann would have my hide if I let you douse yourself any more than you already have," came the amused return, as those pale, calloused fingers closed about Robert's tumbler and deftly worked the glass from his grasp.

"I think you've had more than enough." Green eyes turned to the man perched on the barstool, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, but never quite focused on the man himself. Sympathy joined the familiarity in the bartender's tones as he inquired, "Case not going well, then?"

Robert gave a dry sort of snort, running a hand through close-cropped, sandy brown hair as he resignedly watched the glass of liquid bliss disappear into the other man's swift, sure grasp.

"You could say that. Every time we think we've got the bastard cornered, in comes another paid witness or some other setback. He's guilty as sin, Harry, and I know it, the judge knows it, and the jury knows it. It's just becoming impossible to _prove _it. He's the cagiest son of a bitch I've ever seen, with enough money to pull it off. It's bloody infuriating, is what it is." Finishing the small rant, Robert wiped at his mouth again before eyeing the tumbler in Harry's hand with dubious restraint, a wry, faintly bitter and rueful smirk lifting one corner of his chapped lips.

"You sure I can't persuade you to fill it up again?"

Harry shook his head, chuckling in a patient, familiar sort of way as he put the used glassware away, feeling along the back counter for a rag before turning and wiping it with practiced ease over the polished grain of the bar's surface. It was perhaps not so strange that even without sight, he retained certain behaviors influenced by it, such as nodding a response.

"Positive, Robert. Besides, if you drink any more, I can't turn you out to drive yourself home, and God knows I don't want to put up with you all night." Though the words might have been harsh when taken out of context, when Harry spoke them, his tone was filled with the amused warmth of good acquaintance and good-natured teasing. Robert, obviously familiar with the young bartender, barked a short laugh before pulling his wallet out of the back pocket of his brown trousers and retrieving a few bills from the leather depths.

"Robert…" came the warning tones from Harry, and the lawyer looked up at the disconcertingly unfocused, but brilliant emerald eyes, well familiar with the tolerant almost affection in the other man's voice. He laughed in response, shaking his head and correcting the amount of payment on the bar.

"One of these days, I will successfully fool you," groused Robert amiably, standing from the comfortable leather stool. He jabbed a finger in Harry's direction. "And if you tell me it's 'blind man's intuition' one more time, I'm going to hurt you, blind or no."

And damn if the irritating man didn't smirk.

"All right, all right. I get it. If I don't want the answer, I'd better not ask." Still shaking his head, the lawyer turned to go. "Night, Harry."

"Goodnight, Robert."

There was a slight smile on the pale lips of the slender barkeep as he turned his head to the direction of the door, watching without seeing as his acquaintance stopped long enough to pull his hat, coat, and scarf from the rack near the exit before disappearing into the dark, frigid November night.

Robert, like so many of his Muggle customers, amused Harry in a patient, endearing sort of way as he listened to their woes and worries from his place behind the bar. They were so concerned with the small details of their lives----I forgot the milk! When's Nick's recital? This bill is late! ---- that they were completely oblivious to the world at large. But then, he mused as he turned back around, running his fingers over the smooth, wooden surface of the counter, wizards were not all that different… Harry pursed his pale lips upon discovering the surface sticky before wiping at the contaminant with a clean rag, scrubbing where necessary to remove the remains of whatever spill had transpired there earlier.

_"Quiet tonight, isn't it, Persephone?" _ the young man hissed in a whisper, the subtle nuances of Parseltongue audible only to the small serpent hidden in the folds of his emerald green collar. With his back to the bar, none could see the slender, delicately scaled head and neck emerge from their warmed concealment, tasting the air with a forked tongue and slight, hissing intake of breath.

"_There aren't many humans stumbling about," _Persephone agreed, tilting her supple neck to look up at Harry's chin when the human gave a small snort of laughter. She was puzzled. As far as the young snake was concerned, she had been stating mere observation, not passing haughty judgment. Her warm-blooded friend knew this, but still found himself amused by her curious, unmeasured honesty.

"_I suppose they do stumble often," _Harry allowed, using a good deal of willpower to keep from laughing again, which prompted yet another bemused, concerned glance from the reptile coiled daintily about his throat. Wasn't that what she had said? Truly, there was no hope for humans, even those that could Speak as her Harry could. She, like many of her serpentine ancestors, believed the fault was an unfortunate byproduct of having limbs. As she had matter-of-factly stated to her human charge (for, truly, it was she who was taking care of him---humans were enough of a danger to _themselves_), human lives would be far less complicated if they merely removed those bulky arms and legs.

_"There is no balance on merely two legs," _Persephone conferred wisely on Harry, "_Four-legged creatures have much more apparent grace. At least, until compared to a serpent." _But not _every _animal could have the fortune to be a snake, she reasoned logically. Pity for those that did not. At that, Harry couldn't help but laugh heartily, earning himself a bemused stare or two from the few customers that remained at this late hour. Not, of course, that the blind young man could see them. Lifting a hand, he brushed his fingertips lightly over the large scales of her slender head discreetly, feeling the ripple of her lithe body against his throat as she shifted to conceal herself in his collar once more. He had rescued Persephone almost a year ago now, when the then infantile snake had nearly frozen to death in the snow for lack of a warm shelter, and she had been with him ever since. Harry certainly didn't mind the company; she held an intriguing point of view on many topics, and he enjoyed her conversation. She was also an invaluable help when it came to his lack of vision, helping him to find things or to beware of overfilling a cup or running into a table or pulled-out chair. There was no denying that, aside from his beloved Hedwig, Persephone was his closest companion and (though often bemused) confidante.

After the last customer had paid and left, Harry and Daniel, the bar's co-owner, began the arduous task of cleaning tables and putting up chairs, though Daniel disappeared a little while in to take care of the bookkeeping. Though with the help of Persephone there were many things Harry could do, the nature of his disability still kept him from being adept at just as many everyday tasks. It was frustrating, but in the seven years since he had lost the ability to see, he had more or less come to terms with himself. It wasn't as if there was anything to be done about it. As he methodically swept the clean, gleaming hardwood floors, Persephone hissing advice in Parseltongue, ("_You missed a spot, Harry. Try there. No, not there. A little more to your left.") _the jingle of the door's bells caught Harry's attention. Automatically, without even bothering to look up, he stated, "We're closed for the night, sorry."

When he heard neither a response nor the sound of the door opening and closing again, Harry felt a brief bite of irritation sweep through his body. It was, however, subdued quickly with a presence and skill that had taken years and multiple tragedies to cultivate. Leaving one hand wrapped about the broom's smooth, wooden handle, the green-eyed man ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair, glancing in the direction of the door. He could still feel the presence there, and it was oddly familiar, which gave him pause. Were this figure to be one of his loved ones, he would have found himself wrapped in a friendly embrace immediately, despite whatever tidings were brought. Furthermore, the man's---it was a man, he knew, instinctively---aura was practically dripping with scorn and, strangely, discomfort. That puzzled Harry, and he pursed his thin lips, licking the bottom with his tongue to alleviate the dry, chapped feel about them. That particular combination of emotions was familiar, too, as was the man's scent. It was heady, woodsy, reminding Harry vividly of earth and scented smoke. In fact, it reminded him almost exactly of the smell he remembered clinging to Snape's dungeons, particularly in the Potions classroom. With that, the sense of familiarity to the man's aura sharpened into keen realization, and he widened his unseeing, but piercing emerald eyes, the intense gaze not quite focusing on the Potions Master's form, but conveying perfectly the young man's surprise before it was replaced by a pleasant mask.

"Sorry about that. Good evening, Professor." But what was Snape, of all people, doing here? Surely, if something were wrong, Ron, Hermione, or Remus would have come? Harry refused to believe it was mere coincidence that the tall, darkly imposing figure from his recalcitrant past was once more staring him down. A moment of dark humor caught Harry deciding that Snape's infamous glare and haughty sneer were far less daunting when one could not see them, even though the younger man was positive his former teacher was gifting him with such an expression now. Somehow, the lanky form of Severus Snape could exude a sneer in even his aura, Harry noticed with amusement.

"We _are _closed," he continued, "but I could pull a chair back down for you and you can say what you have to say, because I doubt that you would be here, gifting me with your soothing presence, purely for pleasure's sake."

Harry's mildly sarcastic cheek did not go unnoticed by the Potions Professor, in spite of the pleasant tone with which it was given. The brat was mocking him already and he, Snape, had yet even to speak! Yes, he decided, even at twenty-five Potter was still an impertinent whelp. It didn't seem that he'd changed much physically, either, with his messy raven hair, lightening-bolt scar, and gleaming green eyes, though they carried much more aesthetic appeal without the chunky, round glasses he used to wear. Briefly, Severus wondered where they had gone, before dismissing the notion entirely. Why should he care whether the Boy Wonder had removed his tacky black eyewear and thus did not quite look like the carbon copy of James he had when he was younger? And the fact that Harry was still rather slight of stature didn't hurt the physical dissimilarities now apparent in father and child. James had been tall and wiry, and had never removed his glasses. Of course, Harry was now about four years older than James and Lily had been when they had died…

_However, _Snape considered, _if this is how the bo---man--- dresses without his glasses, it might be far more prudent for him to use them. _The younger man wore a simple, dark green button-down, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the collar just slightly undone, giving a glimpse of a supple expanse of pale throat, and dark orange trousers. _Orange! _His socks appeared to be in different patterns and colors too, as if he had thrown his hand in the drawer and dressed at random.

"Rest assured, Potter," he sneered in return to Harry's impudence, "that my being in this…_establishment_… is far from my own design, and rather at the Headmistress' insistence." Black eyes studied green, watching for any flicker of quailing in the man who had once been his most gallingly …volatile… student. Now that he thought about it, Potter's stare was strangely unfocused and entirely unnerving, and the hint of an amused smile that was playing across those thin lips was infuriating. Potter didn't seem to be fazed in the least by Severus' sharp tongue, appearing instead to be strangely, amusedly, tolerant. The expression in the boy's features, Snape thought sourly, reminded him far too much of Albus Dumbledore. Nevertheless, he flicked his wand, pulling a chair down in a display of hauteur before settling himself into it. Harry didn't seem to be in the least surprised or angry. If anything, the brat was still amused and oddly tolerant of Snape's behavior, and Severus found himself disturbingly reminded once more of Albus Dumbledore.

"I am _here_, Potter, because Filius Flitwick has recently died of the pains of old age, and Headmistress McGonagall has requested your presence at his funeral. Which, of course, you would have known days ago had you retained a modicum of the renowned Gryffindor courage and not run away from everything you purportedly loved." The sneer was highly pronounced in the older man's expression and aura now, as he crossed his arms across his chest, eyeing his former pupil with obvious disdain. The contempt in the angular features of the Potions Master only intensified at Harry's refusal to take the bait. Harry Potter was simply acting _odd_, and it was making Severus Snape angry and uncomfortable.

"And, furthermore, though I have always maintained that you have no sense of taste, it doesn't become you, Potter, to look as if you were dressed by a deranged house-elf." He cast another scathing glance over the youth's tacky attire, lip curled in an impressive sneer that had only increased in potency over the years, determined to dispel whatever lingering sense of discomfort he felt at being in the presence of this strange shade of Harry Potter. When Harry continued to be serenely imperturbable, calmly returning to the task of sweeping, clearing dust and dirt into a neat pile, Snape found his scowl deepening. The tension had been thick in the air from the moment he had walked in the door, before either of them had had the chance to speak. Years of shared history and multitudes of past encounters and experiences stretched between them, straining further the thin line of civility that had only barely existed. In fact, if he grudgingly admitted it to himself, Harry was being more civil than he, but the blasted Gryffindor had started all of it. He, Snape, was simply reminding the younger man of the proficiency of his acerbic tongue. At least, until the boy stopped with that eerily disturbing act of pleasantry. It was unnerving, and he didn't like it. Taunting the boy into a state of vicious anger and observing as his far too expressive face contorted with suppressed, self-righteous rage had been an entertaining constant in the former Death Eater's life. Back then, he would have never believed that Harry Potter might learn to control that infamous temper of his. But it would seem now that he had, and that, too, was a bit disturbing. He'd never really thought of Potter in an adult capacity, even if the boy had been of age now for the past eight years.

Harry did not immediately respond to Snape's acidic comments. Instead, he kept his reserved emerald gaze focused on the task at hand, sweeping the last of the dirt into the dustpan before settling both it and the broom against the wall. His expression was serious, but difficult to read when he finally turned around to face Severus, walking purposefully to the table. Only when he came directly close to it did he discreetly lift a hand in front of him to brush his fingertips along the wooden edge, establishing the boundary in his mind before lifting one of the chairs from the table and setting it back against the floor. He could sense the unease in his former teacher, and though he might have taken a great deal of pleasure in it years ago, now he merely found it faintly exasperating and mildly endearing. That wasn't to say he wasn't amused---he was, to be sure. He was also mildly annoyed by Snape's continued hostility, but, to be fair, Harry _had _opened their conversation with sarcasm, and the other man's caustic remarks were far less hurtful when Harry could sense the discomfort underlying the words. Snape was merely lashing out defensively, lest Harry take advantage of the Potions Professor's distraction. Not that he would, but Snape didn't have to know that. Nor would he believe it, Harry reflected wryly, with all of the past history between them.

"_I don't like this man," _Persephone hissed lightly, her irritation as obvious to Harry as his former teacher's. Discreetly, Harry turned his back slightly to Snape to seat himself in the chair, stroking the young adder's smooth scales in reassurance as Persephone continued, "_He is very rude, and he smells bad."_

Harry managed not to laugh, but he couldn't quite help the slight, indulgent quirk of his lips as he settled himself comfortably, hissing his response in a whisper too low for Severus to catch as he turned back to face his reluctant guest. "_He is an ally, and his scent is that of potions." _

_"I still don't like him," _came the stubborn, soft hiss, "_I don't have to be able to understand HumanSpeak to know that he's very rude." _Knowing that Persephone's stubbornness and rigidity of opinion outweighed even his own by far, Harry kept his thoughts to himself. There was no doubt that Snape was, by nature and years of long practice, a rude man. But he also was exceedingly honorable, in his own way. Letting the smile die on his pale, thin lips the younger man turned to face his surly companion, his features composedly bland. Had he been younger, the venomous jabs would have enticed a furious, righteous diatribe from his mouth, but so many years and so much pain later, Harry was bereft of any desire for conflict. He could feel his former Professor's discomfort with the situation, and resolved to withstand any verbal assaults the other man would instigate.

Whatever Harry had thought to say was cut off by the sound of a voice emerging from the restaurant's depths, followed shortly by the purposeful footfalls of a long stride. Daniel emerged from the back, casting a bemused, wary glance around the anteroom, taking in the gleaming floors and neatly stacked chairs on their tables before his hazel eyes alighted on the pair engaged in what appeared to be tense conversation. At least, Daniel amended mentally, the tall, dark man appeared tense. Harry appeared as unflappable as ever, calmly taking his companion's vicious comments with tolerance and a reserve that had become characteristic for the young man over the past few years. But he knew that even Harry's patience had limits, and that the young man's temper was notorious when roused, and there had been no reason behind the stranger's last comment.

Daniel had heard, and it had filled him with fierce anger. Was this man completely unobservant or simply unnecessarily cruel?

"Is there a problem here?" he intoned, stalking intently to the table and placing a hand possessively about the other man's shoulders. Hazel eyes blazing with indignant fury on Harry's behalf, the tall Muggle stared the form of the Hogwarts teacher down, not liking what he saw. The man was tall, Daniel could tell, with a thin, sallow face and high cheekbones framed by thick, lank raven hair that fell to his shoulders and sharpened the contrast to his pale skin. Black eyes stared back at him, derision gleaming in their onyx depths and a smirk playing over those thin, chapped lips. The tips of his fingers were stained as if by iodine, and his most prominent feature was undoubtedly his aquiline nose, seeming almost out of place for the otherwise thin face. His presence radiated a mocking superiority and arrogance as he slid his gaze from Harry to Daniel, and Daniel didn't like it one bit. Apparently, Persephone didn't either, if the slight hiss coming from about Harry's throat was any indication. Daniel couldn't understand her, obviously, but he knew that Harry could, one of the many strange things about his friend.

"Daniel, thank you, but everything is under control," Harry said gently, but firmly. Daniel was well aware of Harry's pressing need for independence and the freedom to take care of himself, but it didn't ease the urge to protect the blind man that all-too-often rose in his chest with an all-consuming intensity. He never took his eyes off the stranger opposite them, even as Harry lifted a hand to rest lightly on the one about his shoulders.

"I will close everything down tonight, and what I cannot do, Professor Snape here will assist me in." The man across the table snorted, as if thinking that he would do no such thing, and Daniel was inclined to agree. He didn't move, however, keeping his protective glare focused on Snape and his arm possessively about the smaller man's slight shoulders. He could recognize the appreciation, but firm dismissal, that underlay Harry's words, but he was still uneasy about leaving Harry alone in the man's dubious presence.

"Please, Daniel. I do appreciate your concern, but Professor Snape is an acquaintance from my past, and this conversation could likely last a while longer. I would hate to keep you out all night." Even knowing that Harry couldn't see, Daniel looked down at his friend, taking in the determined set to the familiar green eyes and fine jaw. If the man was from Harry's past, he was likely a wizard, and what they had to discuss was likely private in nature. He would do as asked. Giving the stranger another fierce glare and ignoring his smirk, he squeezed the hand atop his before straightening.

"All right. I'll see you tomorrow, then?" the sandy-haired Muggle prompted, shoving his hands in his pockets and still glancing occasionally at the thin, dark man he was leaving Harry with.

"Of course. Night, Daniel." Daniel knew not to be hurt by the slight edge of finality to Harry's friendly tones, but it was still there. He couldn't be of use to the conversation, and if the man was a wizard and a threat, he couldn't be of any use in protecting his friend. But Harry didn't seem worried; if anything, he seemed amused by this Snape character's taunts. He knew Harry had an uncanny ability to sense people, but Daniel was still anxious. Daniel was also already dismissed.

"Night, Harry." As he turned to leave, he gave the other man yet another look of unadulterated venom, saying quite effectively without words what he would do should he discover that Harry had been hurt. Narrowing his eyes at the smug smirk on Snape's lips, he picked up his own coat from the rack and disappeared into the night. Harry stood, following him with familiar purpose, only occasionally and subtly reaching a hand out to gauge physical boundaries he could not determine with his damaged eyes. When he reached the door, he pulled a key out of a pocket of his hideous trousers and locked it to keep any more unwanted guests from disturbing their conversation before returning to the table and to Snape. Daniel meant well, and Harry loved him as dearly as he did Ron, Hermione, or Remus, and though Daniel knew of the magical world and Harry's connection to it, Harry had no desire to continuously sense the taller man's protective anger and suspicion. He wanted to be of clear mind for the duration of this interview.

"Dobby is hardly deranged," Harry replied insipidly upon returning to his seat, ignoring the previous altercation with Daniel and letting the statement wash over his guest's consciousness for a heartbeat, feeling rather than seeing the sneer twisting the lips of that sallow visage, "and, as my friend, of invaluable help." The bland comment was delivered with minimal emotion, and Severus found himself ready to comment sharply, but lost his train of thought upon being once more skewered with the younger man's unfocused, but piercingly intense green gaze. As he studied that smooth face, features defined now by adulthood, the truth of the boy's movements, his unfocused eyes, and his strange mannerisms hit him in a stunning moment of realization.

"You're blind," he noted, managing to keep his tone even save for the first note of quickly masked incredulity. And, somehow, the words tasted foul on his tongue and Severus unwittingly found the acrid sensation of bile rising in his throat. He may have never liked the brat, but it did seem that Potter had no end of tribulations to endure, and permanent blindness seemed much too harsh a reward for the boy-hero who had accepted his fate and brought down Voldemort. Another realization occurred to the Potions Master then, bringing with it a twinge of emotion he detested---- mild mortification. Even for him, and even for the presence of Potter, there were certain lines not to be crossed in a verbal lashing. One simply did not insult the attire of a man who could not so much as see to dress himself, which was exactly what Severus had just done. Not that he would apologize----it was bad enough that the insufferable Gryffindor was making him feel discomforted simply by his presence and those damnable eyes that saw too much without seeing at all, but he didn't have to own up to it. It was a justifiable mistake: anyone could have made one similar upon seeing a man he or she had last known to be perfectly healthy dressed as Harry was now.

_If one could call it dressed, _Snape thought with an irrepressible mental sneer. This was, after all, still that arrogant bastard James Potter's famous, ostentatious offspring. As far as he saw it, Severus was perfectly within the bounds of propriety to indulge in mental derision of the unendurable brat. Of course, the fact that Harry Potter was now twenty-five and physically disabled was completely irrelevant. It was not, after all, his fault that the boy could not see, and he therefore had nothing to feel guilty over.

"Quite so," Harry agreed, far too calmly in Snape's opinion. But then, how long had the young man dealt with this newest unfortunate circumstance? Was it a result of the last battle with the Dark Lord? Or was it simply something stupid the boy had done? Not that he was curious in the least, Severus amended mentally.

As Severus continued to war with himself, Harry quietly observed the other man's aura. With the loss of his sight, his sensory abilities had heightened what seemed tenfold. Like in similarly affected Muggles, his hearing and other physical senses were much more sensitive than those of an average person. However, not only his physicality was affected by the loss of the ability to use his eyes; his magical senses, too, had strengthened. Harry now found that he could sense the auras of those around him, determining a general indication of where people were and their emotions so as to mentally categorize them as friend or foe. This perception was what he had trained on his former instructor now, watching without seeing as his companion processed the information with considerable intellectual prowess.

"I lost both my sight and the majority of my magic on Halloween seven years ago," came the solemn offering, the young man's tones quiet and serious as he turned his head away from Snape, unseeing emerald eyes seeming to almost focus on something in the distance, that undoubtedly only the boy could see in the depths of his mind. Briefly, Snape considered a light use of Legilimency, but quickly dismissed the notion. He wasn't entirely sure he _wanted _to know what was in the other man's thoughts, even if only to assess the validity of the boy's previous statement. The loss of his magic? That would explain the Muggle-like lifestyle, but the idea seemed too incredibly ludicrous and abysmal… It was one thing to be born a Squib or Muggle, where one might feel jealousy but would not truly know what one was missing, but to be stripped of such an integral, intimate portion of one's being as his _magic_… the notion was beyond appalling. Surely, it wasn't true, and the boy was merely clamoring for attention again. Such an incident had never been recorded in the history of the Wizarding World! Shrewd orbs of onyx cast their glance on the seemingly serene figure of the youth before him.

_But then, this boy has a predilection for defying previously held truths._

He'd never been expressly fond of the boy, that much was decidedly certain, but even Severus Snape found no small measure of horror at his enemy's son's current circumstance. But, being who he was, with all of the innate pride and bearing therein, Severus couldn't bring himself to apologize for his inappropriate criticism or offer anything resembling sympathy for his former aggravation's plight. It simply wasn't his way, and he considered the severity of his discomfort at this situation to be penance enough. Besides, this was _Harry Potter_. Surely Granger and Weasley at least, if not the rest of the Wizarding public, would have been waiting to answer to the brat's every beck and call. He had already intimated having a house-elf, even if he had called the creature 'friend.'

"And no doting populace?" came the drawling sneer, impossibly black eyes scanning the younger man's form impassively, pale lips drawn up in a smirk. "I would have pictured you soaking up the attention, consistently being coddled as 'hero.'" Snape paused for only a moment before adding, "Your father would have."

Harry didn't say anything, turning only to look at him with those infuriatingly _knowing _green eyes, as if he understood Snape's discomfort and galling unease. When had Potter's brat become so damn…_adult?_ Snape could remember a time when the mere mention of James' name in a negative context could have induced an entertaining explosion of furious temper from the boy, but now…Now Snape seemed to not be able to get so much as a tightening of the Gryffindor's facial muscles for his snarky efforts, and it was beyond irritating.

For a few moments the silence stretched between them, Harry eventually turning those unnerving emerald orbs away from Severus as if glancing at the back of the room. Of course, now that he knew the other's handicap, the motion seemed superfluous. Severus chose not to think on that, trying vainly to dispel the heightening discomfiture he was suffering, even as the impossible figure slowly rose once more from the table.

"Would you like a drink?" Harry inquired coolly, his tone having lost some of its amused pleasantness but still absolutely in control as he smoothly made his way back to the bar, sidestepping tables and chairs by memory, Snape realized, rather than sight. Occasionally, if uncertain, Harry would lift a hand and hold it before him, but the younger man was obviously familiar enough with the room to do so only rarely.

"No. And, what, no hotheaded, asinine retort? Are you perhaps denying your need for attention by omission, Potter?" Snape inquired, his tone mocking and derogatory. Dammit, if he were to feel this bloody edgy, Potter should, too.

There was a slight snort from his green-eyed companion. "Hardly." Harry glanced back at Snape then, or at least appeared to, even if they both knew the boy couldn't exactly 'see' his former Professor. His mouth curved into a thoughtful line, accented by the shape of his dark eyebrows and the gently confident ease of his movements behind the counter as he pulled out two glasses and a bottle.

"Unless you truly _want _to see me angry?" the boy inquired softly, pausing with the bottle in hand.

Despite himself, Severus felt a shiver. Though if what Harry had intimated were to be believed and he had no magic, there was no apparent reason for the dread those curious words invoked. But yet, somehow, there was an eerie understanding in those green eyes and youthful visage that seemed to deny even Snape's considerable powers of Occlumency. It was strange, perhaps, that those almost chilly green eyes lacking the ability of sight held the sensation of seeming to stare straight to the soul.

"As if I need an idiotic, melodramatic display of foolish Gryffindor self-pity," scoffed the Potions Master, salvaging dignity and pride with properly delivered acerbic comments. But there was no denying the infuriating faint amusement in his younger companion's features, and it soured Snape's mood further.

Harry couldn't help the smirk threatening to engulf his thin lips as he deftly poured, recapping the bottle a moment later. "Because you've never been one for melodrama, right, Professor?"

Severus decided then that he must have been getting old, and therefore slipping with age. Nothing else could explain the opening he had left Potter to take advantage of. Scowling, he replied, "Be glad that I can no longer take points for your cheek, Potter. And I am no longer your Professor."

"A fact for which I am incredibly glad." There was definite amusement in the Potter offspring's tones as the blind youth expertly slipped the bottle back into place before gathering the glasses in hand. Despite the fact that Snape had declined a drink, Harry carefully made his way back to the table and set one of the tumblers in front of his former teacher anyway before retaking his seat.

Silence reigned once again for what seemed like many long moments, broken only by the sounds of the two men as they sipped the amber alcohol, savoring the taste and burn and the night sounds of an empty bar with their thoughts. With his understanding of Snape's emotions, Harry found himself comfortable, though he knew his guest was far from so. Hopefully the drink might help ease his nerves some until he asked whatever question was currently brewing in his mind and further unsettling his already-edgy aura.

"Potter…" Snape began after many more moments' silence, softly swirling the liquid in his glass as he did so, dark eyes studying the ripples of molten gold rather than the eerie gaze before him. He was far from comfortable, but, damn it all, he was curious.

"Harry," the bold child interrupted, taking a measured sip from his own glass. For reasons that were his own, the young man who had killed Voldemort did not particularly like being referred to by his surname. Snape, however, while having yielded the formality of his title of 'Professor,' was unwilling to make the jump to first-name familiarity.

"_Potter,_" he stressed, focusing his piercing ebony stare on the youth who could not see it but would undoubtedly get the message, "if you don't mind my asking…if you are blind, how did you…?"

"Recognize you?" Harry anticipated, turning his face to Severus, even if his green eyes didn't quite focus on the tall man's imposing form. He seemed amused, which disgruntled Severus a bit but which he took as a good sign. At least the brat was not offended enough yet to withhold answers to Severus' questions.

"Excuse me for being blunt, Snape, but you have a distinct smell about you. It's not necessarily a bad one," he amended a bit hastily, knowing it was awkward but unsure of how to phrase an honest response without bringing offense. He knew that his former teacher understood, however, when he heard a slight noise of acknowledgement from across the table. Shaking his head slightly, he ran a hand through his tousled raven locks. "What I mean is, it reminds me of the Potions classroom, and even after all these years I could never forget that smell." A dry chuckle colored the words as he took a sip from his drink. "And I know that still sounds a bit unlikely, considering how many people could smell like Potions, but it's always been stronger on you. Plus, there's also the way you walk. I can recognize most of the people I know well simply by the sounds they make while walking. You, you're almost silent, and you almost never speak until you've had a thorough opportunity to survey the room and its occupants." Harry shrugged, letting Snape absorb the information. For his part, Snape thought that during that small exposition Harry had sounded more like himself than he had all evening. Perhaps it was the alcohol…

"But even then, I would always recognize your aura." With that admission, Harry's voice was so quiet and serious that Severus almost didn't hear him. As it was, if it weren't for his sharp instincts honed from years of subterfuge, he likely wouldn't have.

"Your aura is unmistakable, as is that of every other person." His tone had become musing, carrying a note that Snape had never heard in the soft nuances before. "In short, Pro---Snape, I simply knew." With that, the younger man finished his drink and set the glass back against the table with a soft _clink_. In disbelief, Severus stared at him, setting his own drink down in the process.

"You can 'sense aura'?" he repeated in almost-sneering incredulity. That seemed to contradict every other explanation the boy had given. Onyx eyes surveyed the green-eyed figure before him intently. "And why has no mention of this 'talent' been made before?" he drawled. Harry shrugged.

"If you'll remember, I said that I'd lost most of my magic rather than all of it that night. Best I can figure, and Madame Pomfrey agrees with me, is that, after the loss of my eyes, the remaining traces of magic in my body converged into a couple of single abilities to enhance my perception of the world instead of letting me retain the ability to do minor spells. Rather like the way a blind Muggle would find his other senses enhanced as he adapted; not that I don't have that too, of course…" His voice trailed, and he unconsciously reached up a hand to his collar, stroking the smooth scales of a creature wrapped about his neck. A serpent, Snape realized, recalling Potter's ability of Parseltongue. Apparently he had kept that as well. The boy's story did make sense, all things considered. Severus, however, still had no idea of how it had occurred, but then, he convinced himself he wasn't curious. The fact was that Harry was blind and without most of his magic. Beyond that, there was no need for understanding---at least, not by him.

"So, crippled," he took faint pleasure in getting beneath the boy's skin for the first time that night when Harry winced slightly at his harsh diction, "without magic and sight, you decided, with characteristic arrogance disguised as self-sufficiency, to ignore the plethora of aid that your adoring public," there he sneered, "would have undoubtedly offered, or at the very least the hovel of far-too-many Weasleys, to open a Muggle _bar_?"

Snape found himself satisfied by the tension now apparent in the youth's muscles and thin, terse lips. Finally, the seemingly imperturbable brat was becoming as ill-at-ease with this whole situation as he.

"The Weasleys were never an option, as you well know." Harry's voice was ice, and the expression in the emerald depths of those unfocused eyes was cold. He hadn't lost his temper yet, but Snape could see that it still lingered in him, simply buried beneath layers of control, and that heartened him. It would have been simply too much to think that Harry had changed so completely from the loathsome brat he had taught all those years ago, even if he had known from the start that the boy would have to learn to camouflage those earnest emotions if he would have any hope to defeat the Dark Lord…

"And the bar, though, really, it's just as much a restaurant as it is a bar, is Daniel's dream."

At that, Snape couldn't help the return of his customary sneer, recalling the tall, hazel-eyed Muggle who had wound his arm so protectively about the blind youth before him.

"Really?" he drawled boredly, lifting his tumbler to his lips and finishing off the amber liquid inside before setting it back against the table. "And just who is this charming Daniel that was so threatened by my presence?"

A flash of ire blossomed quickly in the emerald eyes of his host before being quickly subdued with calm control as Harry lifted a hand once more to his throat, hissing softly to Persephone, who uncoiled herself and slithered down Harry's shoulder to rest on his forearm, forked tongue tasting the air. Despite himself, Severus found that he was listening intently to the hissing, serpentine language,as mesmerized and fascinated by the tongue as he had been since the days of his youth. But all too quickly, Harry had stopped, and the adder coiled about his forearm rested, seemingly docile, but occasionally lifting her head to stare in Severus' direction. He couldn't be sure, and it seemed absurd to consider, but he had the distinct impression the snake didn't like him at all.

"Not that it's really any of your damn business, Snape, but if you are so absolutely bored and curious that you simply can't _stand _not knowing the intimate details of the Boy-Who-Lived's sex life, then yes, he is my ex-lover." Though the emerald eyes couldn't quite channel the challenge the boy was offering, the set of his jaw, neck, and shoulders told more than enough. Severus had struck a nerve. But, oddly, it didn't bring the satisfaction that perhaps it should have…

"I believe that information and your theatrics were completely unnecessary and, frankly, mentally scarring. I was merely inquiring after the esteemed Mr. Daniel's magical history and knowledge." Snape looked haughtily down his nose at his former pupil, mouth set in a derisive curl, though the effect was greatly reduced by the brat's inability to _see _the classic posture.

It was funny, Harry thought idly, that even so many years after being in the man's class, Snape could still induce such a reaction in him. He felt like a silly schoolboy, overreacting to his teacher's pointed inquiry. He was supposed to be an adult, not the child that had so often exploded in Snape's impossible presence. Oh, well. Open mouth, insert foot. It had been a common enough quandary of his youth, coupled with his fierce, difficult-to-restrain temper, and it would seem that Snape's presence was reviving his less-enviable traits.

"Though…" Snape drawled lazily, clearly enjoying the return of the upper hand of this bizarre interview, "I wonder how the late Miss Weasley would have felt upon learning that your relationships after her were predominantly with your own sex? Or, perhaps the reaction of the equally esteemed James Potter to the knowledge that his son was a pouf?"

There was a niggling little voice in the back of his mind that said he was going too far, that he was tormenting the younger man unnecessarily. It had been bad enough to make a tasteless remark on the boy's blindness, but to make two references, particularly such nasty ones, to the Weasleys did seem a bit much. He didn't speak without measuring the consequences, it wasn't his way, but he did enjoy distressing Potter. The brat had been so damnably _calm _throughout this entire conversation, and it had been more than enough to unnerve Severus. It seemed only fair to turn the tables a bit. He watched with mild fascination as the expression shifted on the boy's features: his jaw tightening, a pulse appearing in his tense cheek, and his muscles pulling taut. The brilliant green eyes before him no longer seemed to hold the dizzying quality of emeralds, but instead the harsh coldness of smooth, hard sea glass. He had done more than strike a nerve this time, and, despite himself, he was glad to know that the boy's power had sharply ebbed after the final battle. He had seen back then what the boy could do, and the thought that such fury and raw, unrestrained power might turn upon him…

"That was low, even for you." The younger man's voice was a snarl, low and quiet and undeniably deadly. If he hadn't been informed by the boy himself that he no longer retained his fearsome power, Severus might have found himself afraid.

"_Never_ mention Ginny to me again. _Ever." _A fearsome chill seeped into the words, hatred and sharply contained fury coloring their sound in a way that Severus hadn't heard from Potter's lips since the final battle. The young adder that had been about his arm had obviously picked up on his fury and had lifted her head from her master's wrist, hissing furiously. Adders were not known for being deadly, despite the potency of their venom, because of the small amount they injected in a bite. Yet Severus had no doubt that if the young serpent were free to bite him now, she would pump him as full of deadly toxin as possible.

"Do call off your pet snake, Potter," Snape drawled archly, watching with disdain as Harry placed a hand on the creature's scaled head. He could have pressed still farther, drawing yet more blood with his acerbic tongue, but restrained himself. Potter did have enough to deal with without his adding to the boy's troubles. That, and as much as he hated it with every fiber of his being, he owed the boy. He owed him far more than his life, and his pride still suffered for that indignity. To owe anyone was anathema to the proud Slytherin, but he had found himself bound and indebted all of his years. First to Voldemort, then to James Potter, then to Albus Dumbledore, and, finally, in a culmination of bitter proportions, to Harry Potter: Voldemort's nemesis, James' son, and Dumbledore's protégé.

"In any case, as I'm assuming that you are intelligent enough _not _to have your home or this bar registered on the Floo network with so many of my former colleagues out for your blood, it must then be left to me to get you to Hogwarts." What a blow to the younger man's considerable pride that must have been…what every day must be, Snape thought. Oddly, he found no pleasure in it.

Harry listened as his former Professor spoke, still struggling to reign in his temper. He was more glad than ever now that he had sent Daniel away. With his abilities, it would have been impossible to keep any semblance of coherency in this situation if he had to deal with the force of his own anger and the Muggle's too. As it was, he was having difficulties with the waves of resentment and bitterness he was picking up from Snape, as well as the continued discomfort and unease. There was something else there, too, that he couldn't quite identify, lost as he was in the flow of emotion rushing over his senses and body. With years of long practice, Harry forced as much of it away as he could, managing through sheer force of will to keep his face as neutral as possible and his breathing even. All control had briefly seemed impossible with the mention of Ginny, her very name bringing with it a multitude of emotions he couldn't possibly name, much less begin to deal with. Luckily, Snape was too concerned with his belittling of Harry and arrogantly long-suffering planning, as if Harry's disabilities were a grievous inconvenience, to notice his former pupil's difficulties. Reining his emotions back under taut control, the young man consciously closed his expression, ignoring the brief bite of bitterness at Snape's curt tone. Inconvenience…yeah, well, they certainly weren't _convenient _to him, either.

Abruptly, he stood, cutting off Snape's further declarations of plans and complaints. Persephone coiled more tightly about his arm at the movement, slithering back up to her place about his neck, where she could whisper to him with far more ease should an inanimate object find itself in their way.

"Well, it's too late for me to leave right now, and I'll have to tell Daniel that I'll be gone for a while. My apartment is upstairs, and I have an extra bedroom. You're welcome to stay, since, as you pointed out, I will need assistance to Hogwarts, or you can Apparate back to Hogsmeade." His tone was as businesslike as his manner, and Snape could hardly believe that the offer was made out of anything other than pragmatism. And it _was _the more pragmatic choice, to stay, as late as it was. He didn't particularly feel like Apparating all the way to Hogsmeade to walk up to the castle for a couple hours' sleep when he'd have to repeat the process all too soon.

"I thank you for the dubious honor of your hospitality, Mr. Potter."

* * *

Well, there you go. The prologue of sorts, though it's probably far longer than most prologues would be. In any case, in the next chapter you will see the start of the directly post-HBP story, beginning the exposition of everything hinted at in this chapter, both past and present. The past-story will span for several chapters, broken by the occasional interlude into the present, until such time as the story can fully devote itself to the present's plot. Because, really, you can't understand what's going to happen in the present if you don't find all the clues hidden in the past. But then, the present gives hints of the past, too... -wink-

** I am also on the hunt for a beta! **Email is in my profile, feel free to apply. It's been quite a while since I've written for the HPverse, and this is definitely my first eventual Snarry, so I want to know how I'm doing. Also, if anyone would like to point out any research-inaccuracies or pesky Americanisms, that's appreciated too.

Harry het-fans, you'll get yours in the Past sequences, while Harry slash-fans, you'll get yours both in the later Past sequences and the eventual present. Enjoy the ride, folks. Read, review if you like with comments, questions, etc. I'll do my best to answer. Biggest thing is to simply enjoy.

Cheers.

Autumn Ruby


	2. Chapter One

**Disclaimer: **Nope, still not owning it.

**Author's Notes: **Sorry for the wait. University owns my soul, most unfortunately. Anyway, this is the first chapter of the "Past" sequence, bringing you back to a directly post-HBP timeline. Enjoy.

* * *

"_Lumos." _The soft sound of a hoarse voice broke the thick silence blanketing the shabby, small third bedroom of Four Privet Drive. Intense green eyes peered thoughtfully at a yellowed scrap of parchment, their gaze focused through large, round glasses and framed by perpetually disheveled raven hair. A work-calloused hand smoothed the wrinkled paper before running through the dark locks and adjusting the blanket held about the awkward form to block out the light. Just a week, the boy thought, intently reading the neat script on the letter. Just a week, and he would be seventeen; an adult wizard no longer bound by the restrictions on underage magic. 

Most soon-to-be-seventeen witches and wizards were ecstatic about the simplification that magic brought to their lives---- the charms and transfigurations they would use in their daily rituals as they had at Hogwarts and the ability to Apparate as necessary or at a whim. However, Harry Potter was not an average wizard on the cusp of adulthood; instead of looking forward to hover charms and everyday transfigurations, he was grimly anticipating the unrestricted usage of shielding charms, countercurses, and defensive hexes. Instead of looking for a career, Harry Potter was looking merely to survive; and, with the advent of the Prophecy that had unfortunately dictated his life since he was a year old, to survive for Harry Potter meant murder.

It should have been more difficult, Harry reasoned idly as he continued to study the parchment before him, to conjure the anger and the hatred to foster the desire that would allow him to use an Unforgivable. But then, Harry had been walking down a darker path since the death of Sirius at the end of fifth year. And, for everything he disliked about Snape, he had learned some applicable and handy information from his former professor's old potions book. While Snape himself hadn't been much for Harry, the Half Blood Prince certainly had, he mused, his mouth twisted ironically. But, then again, Snape was good for something too---coupled with visions of Bellatrix Lestrange, Harry was almost positive he could do what destiny and the Wizarding world at large wanted him to do---kill Voldemort.

A noise downstairs caught the sixteen-year-old's attention, and Harry froze, whispering a hurried, "_Nox," _his bright green eyes focused intently on the door and his muscles taut and tense. For the most part, his relatives had ignored him all summer, and Harry was glad for that. However, he was also acutely aware that the blissful negligence could shift at any moment, and he would once more be fending for himself against his relatives' hateful fury. That was another good point about turning seventeen, Harry reasoned---he could legally leave the Dursleys'. Not, of course, that Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon wouldn't kick him out at precisely midnight on July 31st. Hell, as far as he knew, they'd probably throw a small party after his uncle's lead foot and his cousin's Smelting stick ushered him violently into the so-called 'real world.' Nevermind, of course, that Harry considered himself a victim of reality since he'd been a year old.

Tensely he waited, poised to shove his wand and parchment beneath the pillow and feign sleep at the slightest of indications that his relatives were prowling about. His beautiful snowy owl, Hedwig, lifted her head from beneath her wing as she shifted along her perch. Piercing her master with her luminous yellow gaze, she gave a soft hoot, barely audible even in the anxious silence. Harry's green eyes flicked to her, not quite daring to release so much as his breath at the sudden thought that gripped him----with Dumbledore's dead, how strong were the wards about Four Privet Drive? With Voldemort resuscitated with Harry's own blood, impervious now to the poison of love in Harry's touch, would the blood magic his mother had died imparting to him hold any sway before the evil megalomaniac?

But as the moments passed and he heard nothing further from downstairs, Harry chastised his growing sense of paranoia and allowed himself to breathe. It was probably only Dudley sneaking another midnight snack, as his continued diet still had yet to produce noticeable results. Little wonder, Harry thought, given the frequency of his cousin's late-night binges. As the tension drained from his limbs, replaced by the tingling feel of excess adrenaline, Harry forcefully tore his emerald gaze from the door to the yellowed parchment in his hands, twisting his lips in exasperated annoyance at the realization that he had wrinkled it in his death-grip. During the summer, his supply of parchment and ink was always limited, and he wanted to conserve whatever he had. Chewing his lip, he attempted to force the yellowed paper once more to smooth, running his hands intently over the surface.

"_Lumos_," he muttered again, waving the lit wand about the bedclothes, searching for the quill he had dropped. Aunt Petunia wouldn't be happy that he had spilled some ink on her sheets, but he really didn't care. If the only thing wrong when he gladly left their unwelcoming house was slightly stained sheets, his relatives would be lucky. Grumbling to himself, he shifted the blankets wrapped about his lower body, looking for the gorgeous eagle feather. After some more shuffling and a few more minutes, his fingers clasped about the familiar, light weight, and he pulled the quill from where it had fallen, only to freeze at the creak of the staircase and the sound of a soft curse. Immediately, his body flooded with adrenaline, heart beating rapidly within his chest and senses hyperactive. Dropping the quill and killing the light of his wand, he ducked silently to the floor, pulling up the loose board and snatching his invisibility cloak in a series of quick movements. Throwing the silky, silvery material about his lithe form, Harry straightened, wand held at the ready as he silently crossed the barren floor to wait aside the door.

There had been no further sounds indicating the presence of more than one individual, but Harry was neither stupid nor naïve. If there was one Death Eater in his midst, there would be others soon to follow.

_Well, this answers my question about the wards, _he thought dryly, holding his body tense as he listened intently to the sounds outside the door. He couldn't open it just yet, lest he give away his location. As it was, he suspected that whoever it was outside of his door had already used a locator charm on him. They would know which way to come, and he would have to meet them. Cursing silently and wishing for the Order to recognize the wards' breach quickly, Harry waited anxiously. All of his nerves felt as if they were quivering with anticipation, and his eyes and ears and every sense in his body was keenly attuned to any noise beyond his door. And he wasn't disappointed---he heard the soft footsteps once again.

Any doubt of who, or what, the intruder was faded from Harry's mind. Dudley could not walk so quietly if his life depended on it, and neither could his aunt and uncle. No, this was an intruder, and likely a Death Eater intent upon his death, as an Order member would not sneak so and would have warned him via owl before appearing. No. Harry was once more going to have to fight, but he would also have to protect his relatives, who would be helpless against anything the Dark wizard or witch had in store.

Not for the first time Harry cursed the poor information he had gotten about the state of the world since school had let out. It was too risky, the Order had said, for him to subscribe to the _Prophet_, even if all of its news was exaggerated. It was difficult enough to send post between himself and his friends---owls could not take a direct route. Instead, all post was forwarded through Neville's Great Uncle Algie, a quiet, outwardly neutral contact, rather than full member, of the Order. They were afraid that someone would recognize his distinctive snowy owl or be alert for his name on the _Prophet_'s mailing list and trace their way back to him. Load of tosh, Harry thought. Particularly since they'd seemed to find him anyway.

Stilling his motions, he listened avidly for any sounds to give away the intruder's location. A telltale squeak of loose floorboards met his ears, as well as a muffled curse in a distinctly familiar voice. Upon hearing it, Harry's veins flooded with ice and hatred rose in his belly like bile. How _dare _he? How _dare _that filthy traitor attempt to sneak in here against _him? _Biting his tongue fiercely to keep from doing something stupid that would give away his position, Harry tried to work through the fury raging through his chest. His hand clenched on his wand, the familiar holly wood held tight in his white-knuckled grip. Green eyes flashed with the force of his poorly restrained loathing, the young wizard beyond caring about Underage Magic Decrees or minding the Dark impulses shooting through his mind like wildfire.

A moment later, there was a creak just outside his door. Every nerve in his body was alert, and it took more willpower than Harry had to stay completely still. However, he did so---but it was not willpower staying his body, merely the desire for vengeance. That darker, more vicious part of him that had begun to emerge ever since he had first cast the Cruciatus on Bellatrix and had intensified as he had attempted to do the same to Snape, rose to the surface, swirling about his heart. All of the anger and bitterness that he had felt upon Sirius' death clouded his vision, and when the sound of a whispered, "_Alohomora," _reached his ears, he wasted no time. As the door creaked open, Harry struck with all the speed and viciousness of a coiled serpent.

"_Expelliarmus!" _ The portly man who had appeared in the doorframe let out a surprised gasp, his flaccid body rippling with the movement. Graying, sandy hair was quickly slicked with nervous sweat as he nearly trembled, his small, watery eyes darting back and forth as if looking for escape. For a moment, his features seemed to shift, almost dissolving, as Pettigrew tried to return to his Animagus form.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," came Harry's snarl as he pulled the hood of the cloak away from his head, Pettigrew's wand held tightly in his hand. His own wand was trained on the pudgy Animagus, his manner daring the Potters' betrayer to continue in his actions. The portly man froze at the ice in the teenager's tones, bringing his hands up in a nervous, ratlike gesture, apparently not disturbed by only seeing his master's nemesis' head. His beady eyes glanced quickly back and forth as he attempted to find an avenue of escape, but to no avail. Eventually, cringing, sniveling, he looked up at the small, dark-haired boy who had spared his life three years previous.

"Ah! Harry, Harry, Harry! You wouldn't kill me, would you? You're such a sweet boy, a kind boy, a noble boy!" Pettigrew pleaded, his tones greasier than Snape's hair after a long day in the potions labs. His grubby fingers twisted nervously together, and the excess pounds of flesh hanging from his short, stocky frame quivered with apprehension that only intensified at Harry's harsh stare. He let out a small squeal when Harry raised his wand, only to find himself bound by unbreakable ropes. Vainly, Pettigrew struggled against the bindings, but with every struggle, the ropes tightened about his flesh until he nearly fell over, unable to move. There would be no hope of escaping the ropes, Animagus form or no. Apparition, too, was impossible.

"Don't start!" Harry growled in a fierce whisper, unwilling to bring anymore attention to his room in the fear that other Death Eaters might be in the house. Green eyes flashed angrily as he advanced almost predatorily on Pettigrew, wand in each hand.

"The only reason I didn't gag you was for information."

"So start talking, Pettigrew. Why are you here?" The coldness and revulsion in his voice surprised even Harry, but the young Gryffindor didn't let the moment's trepidation show through his loathing. The anger and hatred he was feeling was sharp, sending pulses of electricity through his body as it fed on itself and intensified. Briefly, Harry felt a twinge of doubt at the anger and the powerful, heady sensation coursing with blood and adrenaline through his veins. A voice in his head (that sounded suspiciously like Hermione) equated his rage with Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Most certainly, the desire to practice his Unforgivables on the sniveling wreck at his feet was Dark. With an internal snarl, Harry shrugged off the doubts and focused his wand more intently on Pettigrew. The rat gave a small yelp, as if the fierce, angry youth before him was far from what he had been expecting.

"The debt! The debt!" he cried, trying to wriggle away but ceasing with a painful gasp of breath as the ropes tightened about him. Beady, watery eyes fixed on the young man's, as he used the dresser as leverage to keep upright. "The life-debt, Harry Potter!"

Harry started. The life debt? Wormtail hadn't given any indication previously that he held anything other than denial of and contempt for the fact that Harry had saved his life from Sirius in third year. He had been perfectly ready and willing to use Harry's blood to resurrect Voldemort that horrible night after the third task. Shaking off his momentary stupor, he thrust his wand at Pettigrew again, taking perverse pleasure in the way the man cringed and ignoring the fact that he should feel guilty for it. This was _Wormtail_: his parents' murderer, spy against the Order, responsible for the death of countless Muggles and Sirius' false incarceration in the hell of Azkaban. Harry didn't _want _to feel guilty for enjoying the feeling of power pulsing through him as Pettigrew shied away from the point of his wand.

"And what makes you think I'm going to believe you?" the Gryffindor youth demanded, trying his best not to let his emotions show on his expressive features. However, that, like many other skills, was still just out of his reach. Pettigrew, however, did not react as expected; if anything, the rat Animagus became furious, struggling against his tightening bonds.

"Because! I can do nothing for my Master with it in place, brat! He knows of it, and won't give me any important duties! I'm tired of being slave to that slimy git Snape!"

The small tirade cooled most of Harry's anger as it shifted to puzzlement. And what did Pettigrew hope to accomplish in coming here? Surely…

"So go on! They'll be here soon! Master's convinced that with the old fool gone he can get to you here, and he's testing it tonight. So be gone, little Potter, and debt be done with you!"

A sour feeling rose in Harry's gut. Voldemort, coming here? As much as he wanted to face the bastard, to make him suffer and to finally kill him and rid the world of his presence, he knew he wasn't strong enough. He couldn't even stop _Snape_. What hope did he have against the bastard's master?

"Surely," he said slowly, ignoring the tendrils of cold anxiety twisting about his heart, "You don't think I'm going to leave you here?" He lowered his wand ever-so-slightly as he tried to consider the best alternatives. He didn't want to leave Pettigrew here where he could return to his master, but he didn't want to leave the Dursleys to Voldemort's tender mercies, either.

"You don't have a choice! You can't Apparate with me and those Muggles! Or are you going to let them die?" He gave another squeal, courage and tenacity deflating with the angry expression once more crossing Harry's features as the younger man shoved the wand back in his prisoner's face.

"Shut up!" Harry hissed, yanking his arm away from Pettigrew's face to start pacing. He knew that if what Wormtail was saying was true, he didn't have much time. He had expected Order members to have noticed the wards' breach and be here by now, but no such luck. Who would he sacrifice? The family that had never loved him, starving and mistreating him all his life, or the acquisition of one of Voldemort's more inconspicuous spies (not to mention clearing Sirius' name)? Which decision could he live with? Cursing because he knew the answer, Harry whirled away from Wormtail, casting a parting spell as he did so that shoved one of his dirty socks in the rat's mouth, the force of it undermining the tenuous balance Pettigrew had against the dresser and sending the rat with a slight squeal that Harry entirely ignored to the floor.

Wasting no time, he trained his wand on the rest of the room, magically packing his belongings in his trunk in the space of seconds. Once he was done, he quickly cast a shrinking charm on it before hurriedly pocketing it, doing the same moments later with Hedwig's cage upon freeing the snowy owl. Luminous amber eyes stared reproachfully at him before the bird gave a soft hoot, understanding her master's wordless plea, and flew out the window. That detail taken care of, Harry whirled around, warring with himself as he stared at the helpless form of the Death Eater lying bound and supine on the floor. Part of him wanted desperately to exact vengeance on his parents' murderer, but he knew he didn't have the time if he wanted to save the Dursleys. And he would, he knew. As much as he hated being manipulated, he knew he was reacting exactly as Pettigrew---or whoever was controlling him--- had anticipated. And he also knew he wouldn't kill a helpless man; for all the darkness brewing within him, he could not bring himself to fall that far. Not yet. However, that hesitancy did not stop him from casting a nasty Bat-Bogey hex in frustrated retaliation against all of the emotions storming within him. Not allowing himself the satisfaction of a smile, the young wizard quickly opened the door, green eyes darting to and fro to make sure that no other Death Eaters had appeared just yet.

Seeing none, he didn't allow himself to breathe a sigh of relief. Instead, purposeful dedication spread over his features, and he impatiently brushed strands of hair in dire need of a trim from his face. Gripping his wand tightly, the faithful holly wood now slick with cold sweat, Harry quickly and quietly hurried down the hall to Dudley's room. Thankfully, the porkish boy hadn't locked his door; not, of course, that a well-placed _Alohomora _wouldn't have taken care of it if he had, but it saved time. As he surveyed the room for the overlarge form, Harry couldn't help the subconscious wrinkling of his nose at the smell and sight of the putrescence littering the floor. Dirty clothes---many with stains and smears that Harry didn't even want to _think _about--- were strewn from end to end, along with stashed foil wrappers and fizzy drink cans.

_Some diet_, Harry thought, but brushed it quickly aside. There was no time. Trudging through the mess with the courage that defined him as a Gryffindor, Harry moved quickly to his obese cousin's side. He shook Dudley quickly to wake him up, cutting off the other boy in mid-snore as piggy blue eyes opened wide with fear and sleep-induced bewilderment.

"You!" Dudley began to exclaim, eyes wide and fearful at the sight of only Harry's head, but was cut off harshly by his wizard cousin's broomstick-calloused hand falling over his thick lips.

"Shut up, Dudley," Harry hissed, green eyes intense as he glared down at his cousin, not daring himself to wonder if this was the right choice. "There are evil wizards coming. Do you want to live?" His tones, though quiet, conveyed absolute, fierce solemnity, and even Dudley could sense it. Watery blue eyes darted from side to side, looking for escape, before he nodded.

"Good," Harry said shortly, breathing out a small sigh of relief. If this didn't alert the Order to the wards' breach, nothing else would. Grasping his pudgy cousin's arm tightly, hauling him ungainly to his feet, the Boy Who Lived closed his remarkable, almond-shaped eyes and the sight of Four Privet Drive faded with the telltale crack of Disapparition.

When Harry and Dudley reappeared on the familiar front lawn of the Burrow, the only sound that reached their ears was the furious beating of their hearts. The sky about them was dark, lit with only a few glittering stars beneath a heavy cloud cover. The moon was new, showing no light. Dudley appeared too unnerved and frightened for words as he gaped at the misshapen house and back at Harry, unsure of which might seem the better option. For his part, Harry didn't have the time to deal with Dudley's insecurities. He tried to shrug his arm away, but the much larger boy held firm with panic in his piggish face, jowls quivering as he fought to say something. Even after all these years of knowing that magic existed and that Harry was a wizard, the Dursley heir was unable to grasp what, to him, was the enormity of being hundreds of kilometers from where he'd been.

"Let _go_, Dudley!" Harry snarled, finally wrenching his arm free of his trembling cousin's grasp. With a whimper, Dudley fell to his knees in the dew-laden grass. "Look, go up to the house and tell them who you are, and that Death Eaters are on their way to Privet Drive. I've got to go back for Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, unless you want them dead." He glared at the frightened, quivering mass of surplus flesh that was his cousin for a split second more, ignoring the contempt rising in his belly at the expression of abject horror on the porkish features. He paused for only a second, handing Dudley Pettigrew's wand. "Take this with you, and give it to them."

"NOW, Dudley!" he demanded fiercely when his cousin merely stared, frozen. He didn't wait for Dudley to obey before Disapparating.

As he Apparated into Dudley's room, wand held tightly in his fingers, Harry had no idea what to expect. Voldemort himself could have been there, waiting for him at the first sound of Disapparition. Or, which he thought likely, the Dursleys could have awoken, and be ready with a weapon at Dudley's vacated bedside to demand the return of their obese child. But as he opened his green eyes, Harry saw none of these scenarios. Not allowing himself to hope that maybe, just _maybe _Wormtail's information was wrong, he stealthily darted over the piles of refuse to Dudley's door, glancing out into the dark hall. He could hear the sounds of wriggling and shuffling coming from his own room, and lamented briefly having not cast a full body-bind on Pettigrew. Sneaking into the hall with quick, purposeful steps, Harry jogged to his aunt and uncle's room, sparing a moment to dearly hope they were clothed. As he stopped outside of the door, the sound of multiple creaks from one singly creaky stair rose to his ears and left his blood cold in his veins.

Order members would not sneak.

Fighting against the panic rising in his heart, Harry didn't bother to knock for propriety's sake. He didn't think he could Apparate with two passengers; and he wasn't about to sacrifice one of his, if miserable, relatives. But what could he do? To stay was surely to kill them all. He would have to hope that someone would discover his plight and answer with backup soon. Cursing the Order for their delay, Harry threw open the door, not bothering to muffle the sound even as a cry arose from downstairs in familiar, high, cold tones, and bounded into the room. With a start, Petunia and Vernon sat up, clutching their duvet to their clothed chests and staring at Harry in stark disbelief and unmitigated fear, as if wondering where he had dug up the sheer audacity to appear in their bedchamber and why he had no body. But even as his uncle was purpling for a tirade, Harry had leapt to the bedside and yanked his aunt to him with the hand not holding his wand. A second later, they were gone.

When he reappeared on the Burrow's lawn, Harry didn't take the time to notice the lights or the Weasleys running about. He pushed a gawking, disheveled Petunia away from him and disappeared with a resounding crack to astonished cries of _"Harry!" _

Even as he reappeared in Petunia and Vernon's room, he knew what he would find. Steeling himself to the knowledge that in choosing to save his aunt and cousin he had likely killed his uncle, Harry Potter opened his green eyes just in time to dodge a blow from said great bear of a man. Vernon let out an enraged bellow, only to turn his attention to the door at the sound of rushing feet and incanted Latin. A jet of red light sizzled through the air, eliciting a whimper from the beefy man who quickly retreated, cowering, to the corner as all Hell broke loose in his home.

"It's Potter! I've found him!" Harry barely had time to register the voice as Lucius Malfoy's before he saw the three Death Eaters already charging down the hall.

"Harry!" That was Lupin's voice, sounding as close to panicked as the werewolf ever would. The sound was muffled, obviously coming from downstairs, before being cut off by the gruff, distinctive tones of Fenrir Greyback. Harry couldn't afford to dwell on the older man's situation, however. He was far too busy staying alive and protecting Uncle Vernon---however strange that notion might have been.

Without the benefit of listening to them speak, Harry had no idea who the other two men (or women) in the Death Eater regalia might have been. Lucius Malfoy was in the forefront, wand extended and hex on his lips as Harry threw the hood of his cloak back over his head, shielding himself from view. It wouldn't offer him too much help, but Harry was willing to take whatever aid was available at this point. A lucky chance wasn't going to help him here: at least, not help him and allow him to help Remus. For now, though, he would have to subdue his "saving people thing" and let Remus and whatever other Order members accompanied him fend for themselves.

"He's in an invisibility cloak!" Malfoy barked, barely sparing a glance over his shoulder at the two other Death Eaters fanning out to either side of him. Faceless white masks gazed predatorily across the room, focusing on the quivering mountain of adipose tissue that was Uncle Vernon. From below, Harry heard the high, cold tones once more. This time there was no mistaking: Voldemort himself was here. Harry didn't know if the Dark Lord had grown simply more bold with Dumbledore's death or if this was just a special instance or a declaring of outright war, but it didn't matter. The Death Eaters were advancing on his Uncle, and the situation had just grown more perilous.

"Not going to escape are you, baby Potter? Going to leave the Muggle to die?"

For a moment, it was all Harry could do to keep from acting rashly. He _knew _that voice, with those obvious nuances of madness clouding its sound. That was a voice he hated above all others except Tom Riddle himself, and instantly hatred and revulsion spread like wildfire through his limbs. He wanted to act recklessly. He wanted to _hurt _her, to make her feel the pain and suffering he had known, that Sirius had known. Harry's fingers twitched about the smooth holly in his hand. It wouldn't be the first time he had tried to cast the Cruciatus…

"Now, now, baby Potter, hiding is very naughty!" Bellatrix continued to taunt, pulling her mask away so that her face might inspire stupidity from the young Gryffindor.

"I think we should pull him out of hiding, Lucius. A little demonstration, hmm, before Master arrives?" the unhinged witch glanced about the room, dark eyes gleaming with madness and sadism. Her wand twirled absently in her fingers, and her movements carried the light, rhythmic quality of a dancer. Dark hair swirled about her thin, angular face. Years ago, she had likely been a beautiful woman. Now… Azkaban had stripped her of the majority of her aesthetic appeal as well as her sanity.

"_Crucio!" _The release of power was random, instantaneous, holding none of the logical execution of a sane individual. But then, Bellatrix Black-Lestrange was far from sane. At the instant that the curse connected, Vernon let out a bellow of excruciating pain, sheer agony rippling his stout form as the mad witch toyed with him.

"It's been a long time since I've tortured a Muggle to madness." Her tone was jovial, giddy.

"Bella," Lucius admonished, his voice deep and brooking no argument. "I enjoy Muggle torture no less than the next person, but Potter is our goal." To his annoyance, the insufferable woman _pouted_ . However, the blond aristocrat knew better than to truly upset her---she might have been mad, but she was as close as anyone to what remained of Voldemort's heart. The Dark Lord regarded her as a favorite pet, often indulging the madness of her whims.

Harry could no longer take the sound of his uncle's screams. "NO!" he shouted, firing off with all of the hatred and anger rising within him the first spell that came to mind:

"_Sectumsempra!" _Bellatrix shrieked in pain, the spell catching her in the right shoulder. Blood spurted from wounds unwilling to knit, rushing in unhindered rivulets over the glimpses of pale skin and sinew through the slashed black fabric. Dark and wet the sleeve of her Death Eater robes grew, the blood slowly dripping from her dirty nails to the floor, pooling at her feet. Dark eyes filled with rage as the mad witch stared at him, clutching her injured arm. Her other raised her wand with the howl of a wounded animal.

"_Avada Kedavra!" _she screeched madly, the wounds still refusing to knit. "_Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra!" _Harry ducked, not wanting to give the "Boy Who Lived" title another go, and with a flick of his wand, quickly sent his relatives' bed in a crash course with one of the jets of vicious green light. Due to her pain and madness, the dark-haired witch's shots were wide and random, and mental and physical anguish was written plainly over her harsh features.

"_Bellatrix! Get a hold of yourself!" _Lucius roared, arresting the woman's arm, "_Potter is the Dark Lord's! Not yours!" _Seething, Bellatrix struggled, tears of maddened rage and fury coursing down her pallid cheeks. Bellatrix didn't listen, her insanity giving her added strength. She snatched her arm free enough to level her wand at Harry.

"_Crucio! Crucio_, you little half-blooded bastard! Dirty boy! Dirty, dirty little filth!"

Harry attempted to dodge, throwing up a _Protego _that he knew would not stop the Unforgivables hurtling his way. The first of the curses missed him, but the second hit its target, and despite himself, he screamed, muscles jerking, synapses firing, back arching in the epitome of suffering and agony. The _Cruciatus was_ rather remarkable in that respect. He did not drop his wand, but, rather, closed his fist so tightly against it in his torment that his uneven, dirty nails drew blood.

"_Bellatrix!" _Lucius was furious. Voldemort might view Bellatrix as his mad little pet, but Lucius wasn't about to take the fall for harming Potter without his Lord's express permission. "_Expelliarmus!" _Snatching the woman's wand, he pushed her away. "Return to headquarters!" Bellatrix looked about to protest, her pale cheeks tinged with pink blotches, her nails digging into the fabric of Lucius's cloak. Yet, with a final curl of her lip and vicious snarl at Harry, who was reorienting himself at the curse's release, she disappeared with the crack of Disapparition.

"Dolohov!" Lucius barked, "Go downstairs and assist our Master. I will handle the Potter brat until he gets here." The final cloaked figure turned his faceless gaze to the tremulous boy attempting to regain motor control with nerves misfiring throughout his body, before glancing at his lieutenant. With a silent nod, the Death Eater turned and raced down the hall to join the battle currently underway in the Dursleys' living room.

Not one to let opportunity slide, particularly with life and limb on the line, Harry used the moment's distraction to attempt another hex at Lucius. However, the feeble attempt was quickly parried, and the tremors in his hand had sent the shot wide anyway. The Gryffindor stumbled slightly, but lifted his head to stare harshly at the Death Eater mocking him in word and movement.

"That wasn't very becoming for a shining young Gryffindor," the blond man drawled, and Harry was certain there was a sneer on the thin lips behind the faceless mask. "Attacking a man with his back turned…not very honorable, are you?" The wand was pointed lazily at Harry, whose pain-numbed brain was trying valiantly to focus on his situation. He didn't dare a glance in Vernon's direction, only hoping that the bed he had flung had been enough to deflect one of the mad woman's curses from its target. His uncle was no longer screaming, at any rate.

Drawing on his reserves, Harry steadied his body and mind, allowing the righteous fury and indignant viciousness that had been steadily growing within him with each conflict with the Dark to take hold. He had to protect Uncle Vernon, and he wanted to stop Lucius Malfoy. Without responding to the aristocratic wizard's taunts, Harry fired off another hex, the anger and rage demanding an outlet. It was building beneath his skin; electrifying pulses of power that whispered sensually in his mind's ear, calling his magic to the surface, brimming with untried promise. He could _feel _his magic, could hear the soft hum in his ears and in his mind, could sense the sensation of the hairs on his arms prickling as if with static, and found himself lulled by its seduction. His very magic, his very core, was bursting with myriad desires: the desire to protect, the desire to live, the desire to _hurt_, and, curling darkly in a corner of his mind, the desire to _kill_.

Unbidden, the tingling sensation spread throughout the room; the windowpanes vibrating, the floorboards pulsating, and a charge in the air reminiscent of the atmosphere after an intense lightening storm. His _rage _was calling forth the storm, drawing out the latent coils of magic that his unapplied performances in class could never have hoped to harness. And it felt _good_. As he fell deeper and deeper into the waves of power, Harry was vaguely aware of sense of calculation and wariness he could somehow feel emanating from the blond, aware of the way Lucius had hesitated, stepped back ever-so-slightly… and then the awareness came crashing down, crushed under the unforgiving heel of agony. His head was on fire, his scar was splitting in anguish, and blood was running unhindered over his forehead and into his eyes and down his cheeks. Legilimency with all of the grace and precision of a sledgehammer slammed into his brain, memories coming forth beyond his control, memories he wanted none to see, much less this foreign, evil presence in his mind. Vaguely, he knew it was Voldemort; it had to be Voldemort ripping his mind asunder. He was gasping for breath, and the nerves in his knees were crying from abuse, as he had unknowingly slammed himself heavily into the wooden floor. He heard screams, only dimly recognizing them as his own, and recognized that his own nails had drawn the blood pooling in his eyes.

And he was trapped, trapped, trapped in the confines of his own mind, cold, high, harsh laughter resonating in his chest and in his ears, pain clouding his thoughts. He could stand, if only he could find his feet, if only he could find the floor. He could fight, if only he could find his wand, could call again the magic that had been so ready to unleash itself at Lucius Malfoy. But he could not, for all he saw were memories, memories he wanted never to relive.

He was four, staring wistfully from the corner of the room as Dudley unwrapped Christmas present after Christmas present, wanting only the books his cousin would never read, or a taste of the Christmas puddings his aunt would never share. And then he got his own present: the foil wrapping that had covered his cousin's. It was pretty wrapping, at least. The foil shined and shimmered and pictures of little old men with white beards and red hats with pretty deer with bright, shining noses danced over its length. It was ripped in places, but Harry could put it back together again. It would be almost like a puzzle… if only his cupboard weren't so dark.

He was eight, proud of his maths test. He had been the only one to get perfect marks, and he had never gotten perfect marks before. The teachers always complained that he didn't do his homework, but he tried to tell them that he wanted to, but his parents wouldn't let him. He couldn't tell anyone he lived with the Dursleys; his uncle had forbidden it. The administration knew, but no teacher would believe that a guardian didn't want a child to do homework. And so Harry was punished, and called a liar, and rarely got to play with the other children during free time because he never had his homework… unless he could do it in the morning before classes. But he'd scored well on this maths test, and he wanted to show Aunt Petunia, thinking that maybe, maybe if he scored well, she might like him just a _little _bit. Maybe she would tuck him into his cupboard? Or maybe she'd let him have the leftover chocolate biscuits that Dudley didn't eat at tea? But of course she didn't. And so Harry learned that he couldn't rely on his relatives, because they would never love him. He was supposed to be grateful, his uncle would say, that they were taking care of him at all since his parents had died in that car crash…

And then he was in third year, hearing the pleadings and screams of his mum whenever dementors drew near. He could hear the bravery in his father's voice as James had tried to protect his wife and son, and knew that his father must have been everything that Hagrid and everyone else but Snape had said. His father was a good man, a brave man, and Harry was proud to be just like him. He wasn't arrogant, as the Potions Master had said. He was a good man. A good man…

…a good man who had levitated Snape upside-down for all to see, mocking and terrorizing the students of Hogwarts not of the good fortune to be Gryffindors like a bully. Like Dudley. But he must have become a good man, because his mother, a good woman, a loving woman who had given her life for Harry's, had married him. A good man…

And then it was fifth year, and Sirius was arching back towards the veil… Harry didn't want to see, didn't want to experience this again. The pain was too fresh, too deep, searing into his heart and mind. He had failed, he had been arrogant, he had been like his father, and it had gotten Sirius killed. He hadn't learned Occulmency, and what shards of the theory he retained weren't helping now. Harry couldn't find the tattered threads of his thoughts, couldn't articulate himself well enough to push the Dark Lord from this most personal, most vile intrusion. And he was seeing Dumbledore, hearing the prophecy that so much had been given to hear, the prophecy that had cost his godfather's life and the last bit of innocence he claimed, falling away with the stream of _Crucio _from his angry, grieved lips…

And now Voldemort knew the prophecy, knew he was searching for the Horcruxes. He knew, he knew, he knew, and Harry couldn't bring himself to care. This was not like Snape's attacks on his mind: this was vicious, blunt, and excruciatingly painful. The Dark Lord sifted through his memories with all of the subtlety of a rampaging griffin, slicing and tearing aside memories with no care in pursuit of his goal. Harry couldn't even think to stand, to push him away, to try and fight will with will. All he could think of was staying alive, not letting Voldemort win, protecting Hermione and Ron and Ginny. Dimly, he recalled that his feelings of love had banished the evil spectre from his mind before, and with great effort, thought about his love for his friends, his love for Ginny, his love for Remus and Sirius and the love for the mother and father he had never met. He remembered how his mother's love had saved his life, the love and dedication of his friends as they followed him, if haphazardly, into danger again and again. They were always at his back, at his side, encouraging him to go on and understanding when he could not. They had faith, they had love, and Harry would protect them with the same.

With a jerk, he felt Voldemort leave his mind. It would seem the evil wizard still could not stand the relative purity of those emotions, and as Harry dazedly ventured to open his green eyes, he could see the revulsion etched firmly in the red gaze above his prone form. He did not know when the wizard had appeared, or where Lucius had gone.

"_You will not succeed, Harry Potter," _the snakelike man hissed in Parseltongue, red eyes dangerous, "t_hough I applaud you for the effort. You have evaded me for the last time. It has been a mistake underestimating your capacity for lucky chances. No longer." _He raised his wand----

----only to be cut off by a panic-stricken voice from beyond the doorway.

"_Accio Harry!" _That was Lupin's voice, and it was obvious that the werewolf had reacted with the first spell that came to mind. But it worked, and Harry barely had the time to grasp his wand as he went shooting at blazing speed past the Dark Lord's legs and toppling into the Order member's lanky, weathered form. Later, he might have viewed his rescue as comical, but Harry was too tired, too shocked, and reeling too much from what had just transpired to muster the energy.

"I've got him!" Lupin yelled, loudly, over the din of spells and counter-spells and pain and blood. Even as he did so, Voldemort had already recovered from sheer disbelief and had whirled to face them.

"Imbeciles!" the Dark Lord roared, "Don't let them escape!" And even as the curse sped towards them, Harry felt the warm arms of his surrogate godfather surround him and allowed himself to fall into black nothingness as multiple cracks of Disapparition resounded in his ears.

* * *

For those of you interested, I've created a Live Journal for this story. You can find it on LJ at www . livejournal . com / users / attic(underscore) ghosts (no spaces) or there is a link at the bottom of my profile on my author's page. Review responses are there, as well as random nothings regarding this story and other projects of mine. 

Again, sorry for the wait.

Autumn Ruby


	3. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer:** Nope, I still don't own it.

**A/N:** Sorry for the long delay. Class and a highly addictive Christmas present have stolen my time away. Ah, the wretched vices of mortal flesh!

-cough- In any case, we're still in the past here. There's a lot to cover, and I don't feel as if I can appropriately describe it all in "flashbacks." You will still see more of the adult!Harry and Snape interactions of the Present every five chapters or so, until I believe I have sufficiently told this arc of the story.

* * *

Dreaming, or, rather, pleasant dreams, was a luxury that most people were not even aware they had. It was an extravagance not lavished upon the thin, strained shoulders of the Boy Who Lived. Harry Potter had not known more than the occasional pleasant night's sleep since his fourth year and Cedric Diggory had been the first victim of returning war. More often, the power of Dreamless Sleep potion was required to keep both the boy's sanity and health, lest he give in to chronic insomnia out of fear of sleep's tidings. Now, as he tossed and turned in the vicious throes of a nightmare, was no exception. 

_He was running, running, unable to slow down despite the stitch in his side and his gasping breath. Though he was fast, a good runner, a good flyer, his pursuer seemed never to tire, never to falter. Stumbling, scrabbling, he picked himself up from the floor and hurried on. His chest ached, his lungs burned, his muscles were screaming from lack of oxygen… and still he was chased. Fingers gripped tightly around a golden locket, defying the cry of "_Accio!" _in his ears, he leapt over musty tomes littering the ground…but then they shifted, opening, clasping about his legs and pulling him under, mocking him, asking him what he thought to accomplish when all he seemed to bring was pain and death. Did he have a chance to stop Voldemort? He was relying too heavily on the Prophecy, he was unable to suppress his "saving people thing," inadvertently causing yet more death. Sirius was falling, falling back into the veil, his spine was arching, the expression on his face surprised, afraid, accusatory. He stared straight at Harry, not at Bellatrix, and Harry _knew _that his godfather blamed him for his death. And Harry was so helpless, so desperate, running from the high, cold laughter resounding in his ears…_

_"Harry!" they called. "Harry! Harry!" _

"Harry!" With a jolt, the soon-to-be seventeen-year-old awoke, thrashing against the bedcovers and throwing himself into a sitting position. His green eyes blinked wildly, dark hair falling in irrepressibly tousled locks about his sweat-soaked forehead. His chest heaving, he blindly struck out for his glasses, willing his heart to not beat so quickly, and the adrenaline pumping through his veins to subside. Placing the familiar wire rims about his severely myopic eyes, he blinked owlishly at the owner of the voice that had coerced him into wakefulness, adjusting the glasses about the bridge of his nose. Slowly, the fuzzy shape of Remus Lupin came into sharper focus, and the young Gryffindor shook his head as if to clear it.

"Sorry," he muttered self-consciously, glancing down at the damp pillowcase beneath him. The bedclothes were severely rumpled, twisted about his long legs, showing clearly signs of the struggle he had enacted during his nightmare. And it_ was _a nightmare, he knew, as already the images were fading from his conscious mind; visions, what few he had had since Sirius' death, recalled themselves despite Harry's personal reluctance to pursue them. After a moment, shifting uncomfortably, he glanced back up at the graying, amber-eyed werewolf by his bedside. However, as he regained lucidity and self-awareness, the urgency of his last memories thrust themselves forcibly into his mind. Suddenly alert once more, he clenched his hands about the sheets, throwing them off his body and moved quickly to his feet.

"What happened! Where am I? Did everyone get out!" Fierce green eyes met tired amber, fiery determination shining in their youthful depths. For his part, Lupin seemed slightly taken aback by the sudden energy and vehemence of his young charge, but practiced as he was, did not appear to be startled for long. Almost immediately, characteristic reserve and kind mildness shone on his weary demeanor as he gently pushed Harry back to the bed.

"You're at Headquarters, Harry," he murmured quietly, knowing that Harry would have recognized his surroundings in a moment, anyway. For a few minutes, he quietly scrutinized the youth, letting the knowledge sink in. Harry had never been fond of Grimmauld Place, and his distaste for the ancestral Black home was increased tenfold with Sirius' death; a sentiment Remus empathized with completely. Subduing the pain the thought elicited in him, the last remaining Marauder stepped closer to his surrogate godchild's bed, sitting companionably on the mattress' side after coaxing Harry back onto it as well. Though briefly reluctant, the boy eventually settled once more atop the covers, though the intensity of that emerald gaze never wavered.

"There were a few injuries, but we're alive." A ghost of a sad smile flitted briefly across that tired, lined face. For a moment, Harry thought that Lupin might grasp his shoulder, but in the end, the man seemed to think better of that motion and desisted. Even with the relative reassurance of that statement, Harry couldn't help but feel as if there was a fairly large 'however' about to follow, and apprehension twisted sourly in his belly.

"What about my relatives?" he asked, searching the werewolf's features carefully, trepidation clearly visible on his face. His fingers dug reflexively into what he recognized as his pyjamas, lines of tension evident in his forearms and tight grip.

"Your aunt and cousin are safe, thanks to your courage and quick action," the older man began slowly, seeming somehow older than he was. Looking at him, Harry was almost overcome by the sudden guilt and horror rising. He knew what was coming.

"My uncle's dead, isn't he?" Harry wasn't really sure what to feel. He didn't hold any love for his uncle, and he knew that the sentiment was more than reciprocated, but he had never wanted the man _dead_. At least, not seriously, he amended. Somehow, it felt as if he had failed again, as he had with Cedric, with Sirius, with Dumbledore… Irrationally, a sickening pulse of hot fury threaded through his veins, but he managed to quickly suppress it. He tore his gaze away from Lupin, not wanting to see sympathy or, worse, pity, in that familiar, lined visage.

"I'm sorry, Harry," came the quiet reply, and then Harry did feel the warm weight of a hand on his shoulder. Briefly, the adult wizard squeezed the flesh beneath his palm before standing, the mattress squeaking as he moved. He turned to look at his charge, understanding in his brown eyes.

"You did everything you could, and more besides." For a moment, he hesitated as if wanting to say more but thinking better of it. When he spoke again, there was none of that quiet reluctance in the calm tones. "How do you feel?"

_Bloody brilliant._ However, Harry was not going to voice that sentiment, as he was physically fine. Instead, he kept his gaze down, fingers clenched tightly about the blue-gray fabric of his pyjamas, unruly mop of raven hair falling low on his forehead and obscuring his eyes. The thin lines of his mouth were pressed together in a line that spoke of taut control: or, rather, what passed for taut control with Harry Potter.

"Okay," he mumbled, still not daring to look up. His mind was a jumble; flashes of emerald light burst behind his eyes, and Bellatrix's mad shrieks of pain and vindication reverberated in his ears. He could still see the figure of his stout Uncle Vernon in his mind's eye; limbs jerking, muscles quivering, inhuman cries of excruciating torment wrenched from his throat. In this instance, it would seem that his famed Gryffindor courage had deserted him.

Seconds seemed to stretch into minutes as those thoughtful brown eyes of the werewolf stared into him, threatening his resolve with tender understanding and kindness. Harry managed not to tremble with the force of emotion running through him, but it was a very near thing. How many more people were going to die because he could not act properly? Logically, he knew there was nothing more that he could have done for Vernon; his heart, however, was a different story.

"How're Aunt Petunia and Dudley?" he asked softly, words slurring together ever so slightly with the discomfort of guilt weighing down his slender physique.

"Physically unharmed," Lupin responded, though perhaps a bit cautiously. Harry finally dared to look up, asking the truth of the man with a piercing emerald gaze that was somehow hollow and blazing with inner fire at the same time. "But I must say they are not dealing with your uncle's…passing… well." Even as he processed that, Harry knew that Lupin had a tendency to understate. By saying that Petunia and Dudley weren't dealing with Vernon's death 'well,' the mild-mannered werewolf meant that they were likely beside themselves, ranting, wailing, and blaming Harry. Harry wouldn't fault them if they did; after all, it wasn't as if anyone else could have saved his uncle but had instead failed.

Harry didn't reply; instead, he turned his face away, staring unseeing at the far wall. The death-grip he had held on the sheets began to relax, as a world-weariness settled over his body. Pride and the refusal to break down in front of Remus were the only reasons he did not dip his head and loose his frustrations in a flurry of tears. It was war; what right did he have to mourn the steady loss of his innocence since fourth year? Hell, from his first year, Dumbledore had been grooming him, however affectionately, into the role of the Light's weapon. He hadn't even _liked _Uncle Vernon; the Dursleys' ill opinion had never mattered to him before, and had always been unlikely to change. Why, then, did their blame hurt so much? And why did he find himself agreeing with them?

"You did everything you could, Harry," Remus quietly soothed, resisting the urge to take the boy into his arms in a parental gesture. Harry would certainly resist, and what right did Remus have to attempt to do so anyway? All those years… all those years that Harry had spent under the stairs in a broom cupboard, malnourished and starved for affection and Remus had been unaware. Oh, how he would have dearly loved to have taken the boy, the last, precious remnant of his youth and the wonderful friendship and camaraderie of the Marauders, in as his own. However, anti-werewolf legislation made adoption impossible, and the lingering stigma of the dark beast made supporting the child hopeless. Often, Lupin had barely managed to feed _himself. _But he could have checked on the boy, left small tokens, learned of the abuse… _anything_. Nevertheless, he hadn't, and now Harry had grown, and grown stronger for his suffering and neglect, and it pained Lupin terribly. He knew that the boy had taken Sirius' death harshly, almost as harshly as he himself had, and this new blow would not be taken easily. Despite the harsh cruelty and madness of the overlarge Muggle and reciprocated hatred between himself and his nephew, Vernon had been, in the boy's eyes, Harry's responsibility to protect; a responsibility he had failed, much like his view of his failure to save his godfather.

_Sirius. The boy has so much promise, but so many scars. I fear that even if he manages to survive this war with his life intact, his soul will be damaged beyond my ability to repair. But I will try, Padfoot. I will protect him with my last breath, and I will help him heal. Just give me strength: I do not think I can do this alone. _

"If it weren't for your quick action, your aunt and cousin would be dead as well," the werewolf reminded his charge gently, surveying the boy with sorrowful amber-flecked eyes. He fought the urge to wring his hands helplessly against his patched, shabby robes, succeeding only marginally. "There is much to be grateful for, Harry."

Much to be grateful for? There was just as much injustice to be furious at! Harry wanted to scream at the sheer unfairness of it all, of the stupid prophecy and Voldemort and his unwilling role in this stupid war and the unluckiness of the people who died merely because of their connection to him, but he kept his mouth shut. He would demand retribution from the Dark Lord later. Voldemort, Pettigrew, Snape, Bellatrix, and Malfoy would pay, he knew. They would pay dearly for their treachery and innate evil. It was not revenge, after all: it was justice.

"Harry?" Lupin prompted, his tones concerned and worried. It was not like the teen to be so reticent, he knew. If anything, the force of Harry's emotions and firestorm temper were infamous.

"Sorry, Professor," Harry spoke up quickly, not wanting to worry his former teacher any more than he already had. His own personal demons were simply that; his own, and he was being silly and childish by parading them in front of Lupin. The werewolf had enough of his own problems to deal with; why should Harry add on to them? He'd already proven that he could take care of himself; it was only when others' lives were connected to his that he failed miserably.

He glanced back up at Lupin, pushing aside that increasingly cynical line of thought. If he had not known better, he would have said that such a statement would have been more fitting emerging from Snape's mouth than his own inner monologue. The former Professor's gaze didn't waver, and observed him far too candidly for Harry's taste, but the young man didn't allow himself the puerile luxury of fidgeting.

"Harry." There was a note that could have almost been paternal in the werewolf's tones, and Harry found himself fighting the urge to squirm again. The last time he had had a conversation similar to this one, he had raged about Dumbledore's office, throwing things in a right tantrum upon learning of the supposed course of his destiny. This time, there would be no petty fuming and storming about, and there would be no kindly, wizened visage staring out with grandfatherly concern through half-moon spectacles at him, lines of immeasurable age and sorrow etched upon his face. That thought alone brought another hot rush of anger and indignant fury, but the young, impetuous Gryffindor quashed the sensation.

"Your uncle's death was not your fault, and neither was Sirius'." Lupin's voice was uncharacteristically firm, and he leaned over the bed, making sure that Harry's green gaze was firmly attuned to his own brown. Despite himself and the stubborn, youthful compulsion to turn away, Harry found himself drawn to the empathy, veiled pain, and absolute steel in the older man's eyes. For a moment, he thought he might believe what he was being told, but it was clashing with the layers of guilt and self-deprecation ingrained in him with his emotionally abusive childhood. Whose fault could it have otherwise been? If Harry had acted more quickly, rather than deliberating over taking revenge on Wormtail, Vernon would likely still be alive. If he had paid more attention to Occulmency instead of being riled by Snape's taunts, if he had not been so rash and convinced of his own integral role in saving those connected to him, Sirius might still be alive, too. Stubbornly, he pursed his lips, not wanting to let on that he didn't believe Lupin entirely, but at the same time unwilling (or incapable) of admitting his harbored guilt.

"Harry." The boy still didn't respond, those brilliant green eyes shuttered and closed off, his posture inherently defensive without the utterance of a single syllable. Inwardly, Remus sighed, cursing his own negligence for not noticing the emotional storm that had been gathering in his charge for years. In that moment, the youth's resemblance to Lily was uncanny: not in physicality, save for the beautiful eyes, but in mannerism and fault. Someone should have expected this sooner. He should have expected this sooner, Remus knew. Yes, he had been preoccupied with his own personal difficulties, his own guilt and guarded pain regarding Sirius and Tonks, but he was also the last of the Marauders, the last of those closest to Harry's parents. He should have known, or at least suspected that Harry hadn't been dealing nearly as well as others had surmised. It was his own failing.

_Forgive me Prongs. I have been failing your son for years, and too blind to see it until now. _

"Look at me. Sirius died in the heat of battle, fighting for what he believed in, and protecting you. He _chose _to go to the Ministry that night, and given the chance, I can guarantee you he would do so again." The strengthening amber in his irises, giving a distinctly wolfish quality to his manner, heightened the intensity in his gaze. Reaching out, he gripped Harry's shoulder once more, knowing without hearing the protest lingering in the youth's slumping posture.

"For all of his shortcomings, there was no one that he loved more than you," Remus insisted, his voice quavering only slightly with restrained emotion. Sirius was still a raw wound in many ways, ways that would never be fully rectified, but he found that he could say this, for the boy's sake. "It was _Bellatrix_ who killed him, and it was You-Know---Voldemort----who is ultimately at fault. It was _he_ who preyed upon and manipulated you. As always, it is _him _we are fighting against. You were a victim in all of this as much as Sirius, or your uncle, or Dumbledore." There was a definite sadness in the graying visage as the werewolf regarded Harry for a tense, sorrowful moment. Finally, he looked away, seemingly lost in memory as he continued, "This is what Voldemort does, Harry. For every family that he devastated with deaths in the last war, he touched far more with fear, discord, and unfounded feelings of guilt. He sowed the seeds, and we tore ourselvesapart." Dry lips tightened in a grimace, and he sighed softly, looking down at the boy, who appeared to be absorbing at least some of this. For several long moments, neither said anything, lost in their own memories and pain. In the end, Remus broke the silence.

"He was so proud of you, Harry," he said softly. There was no need to elaborate on whom.

Unexpectedly, Harry turned towards the werewolf and wrapped his arms tightly about the thin torso. After a heartbeat of what must have been surprise, he felt Lupin return the embrace just as fiercely. He had heard the quiver in the older man's voice, and felt the weight of his godfather's death press more heavily on his shoulders. He knew Sirius had loved him, even if they had not been together long, and the unfairness of their stolen future, of his godfather's stolen life and freedom seemed all the more inescapable and painful. Despite himself, tears of anguish filled his eyes, and silently he let them pour, grieving in a way he had not allowed himself to do previously through his anger and his desire for distraction. More than responsibility for the man's death, he had loved Sirius in return. That love, this pain, was what tormented him now.

"I miss him," he whispered painfully, clinging to Lupin. It took only half a second before he realized that the werewolf was holding him just as tightly, mourning with him the loss of their loved one. He buried his face in the man's shoulder, not daring to think that this might have been what a parental embrace was supposed to feel like; not with the weight of grief pressing down his soul, choking his words.

"So do I, Harry," came the hoarse rasp from Remus, who only held the boy more tightly. This had not been what he had set out to do when worriedly checking on the sleeping Harry, but it had been something they had both silently craved. Others had sympathized with their loss, but none else had loved Sirius the way they had. No one else understood so intimately the ache of his passing. "So do I."

And as he held the youth, Remus was distinctly reminded that for all of his remarkable accomplishments, for everything he had done and everything that the world as a whole still expected of him, the Boy Who Lived was still just that: a sixteen-year-old boy. And more than that, a boy lost in the throes of grief, adult responsibility, and burdens beyond what anyone, much less a hurting teenager, should be forced to shoulder.

* * *

After the scene in Harry's accepted bedroom, neither he nor Remus brought it up again. Everything that had needed to be said appeared to have been, and whether from embarrassment or simply a desire not to reopen raw wounds, neither of the pair had felt inclined to expound on their mutual breakdown. For his part, Harry seemed to have begun the healing process he should have started a year ago, a fact that gratified the werewolf deeply. It was important to him that Harry heal, and if some space was helping that, then, by all means, Remus was inclined to give it to the boy. Remus, on the other hand, was still quietly dealing with his own difficulties; not, of course, that they were problems to be shared with his teenage charge. 

Heaving a slight sigh, the man who was younger than he seemed stirred a teaspoonful of honey into his cup of tea, inhaling the scent with lycanthropically enhanced senses: the full moon had been but a few days prior, and the effects still lingered. A noise upstairs caught his attention and, setting the spoon on a saucer, the werewolf glanced up in time to catch a glimpse of bony neck before a door shut with a strong _click._ Harry's relatives had not taken the death of their own well; the most anyone saw of them was an occasional passing on the way to the loo or the kitchen, and even then, the woman and her child were not sociable. Even genial Molly Weasley had been rebuffed thoroughly despite her warm, sympathetic attempts to offer food and comfort. Of course, the plump woman's hospitality had then been quickly rescinded, and it was clear that the Weasley matriarch had been attempting to put-aside a well-nursed grudge against the Muggles for their, "Absolute starvation!" of Harry. And the question of what exactly to _do _with the snappish woman and her morbidly obese offspring lingered still. They could not simply set them free; despite his unwillingness to think any worse of Harry's relatives in the wake of their personal misfortune, Lupin would not have put it past them to stupidly attempt to go running to Voldemort, bargaining Harry's life for their own. And even if they did not, it was clear now that they were already targets for their connection to Harry, and they knew far too much about the Wizarding world for anyone's comfort. It was really a losing situation however one looked at it, he considered regretfully. And as much as he agreed with Molly that having them here would only hinder Harry's emotional progress, there was little else to be done.

As he turned his thoughts to his teenage charge, Lupin decided that the boy was probably still asleep. It was earlier than the boy would be up if allowed to sleep in, and he had appeared to be doing a lot of sleeping lately. That and studying with an almost obsessive-compulsive fervor. But as he was still grieving the losses and burdens of his existence, Lupin was inclined to let him work out his pain any way he could for now, and the extra study would only prove helpful in the end. It was so _unfair_ to throw these expectations on the slender shoulders of a boy soon to enter manhood, when it should have been girls (or perhaps boys) and careers that should have interested him. Not war. Never war. And yet, it seemed that Harry might never have that opportunity. Prophecy indeed! The wolf in him was snarling at the thought. Why should a boy be fated to destroy the strongest, Darkest sorcerer in a millennium? With fierce vehemence, Lupin pushed the thoughts away, attempting to cool the boiling, almost lupine rage that simmered whenever his musings took this turn, as they did so often lately. There was no way that he was going to let Harry fight Voldemort alone, Prophecy be damned. He had lost so much already, he was not about to lose the last of his family.

And as he lifted the teacup to his lips, Remus wasn't entirely certain if that last thought was for Harry or himself.

* * *

Though he supposed the chat and minute breakdown with Remus should have made him feel at least somewhat better, all that seemed to have been accomplished was that his determination and resolve to get justice for Sirius, Dumbledore, and his family were increased tenfold. He had thrown himself into whatever studies he could work on while trapped in the foreboding old mansion, wishing upon wishing that the horrid portrait of Mrs. Black would die a slow, agonizing death into nothingness and that the heaviness of guilt didn't lay so thickly on his shoulders. His schoolbooks were strewn in the floor before him, scraps of parchment and notes decorating the spaces between them. Yawning, Harry stubbornly rubbed at his eyes before looking blearily down at the mess about his crossed legs. Adjusting his glasses, he picked up one of the pages closest to him, reading over the lines for what had to be the fiftieth time. As much as he was loathe to take Snape's vitriol-enhanced advice on anything, Dumbledore had pressed the advantage of Occulmency too. But it was so bloody _hard! _The books weren't helping him any more than Snape had, even if they, at least, weren't degrading his intelligence and bloodline. With a curse, he tossed the paper to the side again and leaned against the bed, shifting the discomfort and stiffness from his back and thighs as he rubbed at his eyes again. This was _impossible! _But, he admitted grudgingly, the slimy bastard was right about one thing, at least. Knowing offensive spells wouldn't be of help if his opponent could pluck them from his mind and prepare the counter before he had so much as uttered the first syllable. 

Really, his body seemed far more inclined to sleep than to do anything else, but as far as Harry was concerned, he'd been doing far too much of that since the incident on Privet Drive. His physiology, however, was spiteful, and despite himself, he yawned widely. Who cared if it was only seven in the morning? He had work to do. He wasn't going to lose any more of his loved ones, or those that counted on him, to the evil of the Death Eaters. And with his treacherous body, there was his more treacherous mind, bringing forth images and secretly harbored doubts of his own capabilities and aptitude for the tasks, but the youth pushed them away with a spurt of irritation that might have just as easily been desperation. Yes, fighting Voldemort was, in its way, his choice, but it was also the only choice he could make and still live with himself. Hissing another sigh, he ran a hand through his perpetually-tousled raven hair while chewing at his lower lip with stubborn concentration. He could ask Remus, probably, about Occlumency, but that would involve showing that he still blamed himself for his uncle's and Sirius' deaths, something he never wanted to do after everything the werewolf had already done for him. He had seemed so haggard lately, and part of Harry couldn't help but wonder if there might be a connection between the older man's lingering unease and the snippets of conversation he had been made privy to in the Hospital Wing after Dumbledore had died. But that was not fair; Tonks was a great woman, and it really wasn't any of Harry's business, and Lupin was obviously still grieving Sirius, too, or they wouldn't have had that scene the other day. Thinking on it, Harry fought the childish temptation to make a face; he didn't remember the last time he had cried like that, much less been held like that, and he was still embarrassed. He really wasn't even sure what had come over him, only that he had lost all semblance of control. Yet Lupin hadn't mentioned it since, and Harry could hope that maybe the werewolf was a bit embarrassed too, and neither of them would have to talk about it. There was still a war to fight, after all.

A sharp noise, eerily reminiscent of the dark crack of Apparition, sounded outside the window of Harry's room of the old, foreboding manor, making the boy jump in pure reflex before quickly moving to his feet and scrabbling for his wand. A moment's pause, however, revealed the coursing, thick stream of sound characteristic of a summer downpour, and he realized, vaguely attempting to slow the beating of his racing heart, that the cracking noise had simply been thunder.

" 'Constant vigilance' my arse," Harry muttered, stashing his wand on the bed as he moved to change out of his unflatteringly striped pyjamas, glancing at the thick sheen of gray gleaming on the windowpanes as the rain coursed down in unhindered rivulets, "All I'm doing is making myself paranoid." It was only thunder, for Merlin's sake. No need to act as if there was going to be an onslaught of Dark wizards and witches out for his blood every time he went to change his shorts. But he definitely understood how Mad-Eye could have gone mental if this is what he felt like all the time.

Casting another irritated glance at the windowsill, Harry turned away from it and grabbed a pair of overlarge jeans from the wardrobe, slipping them on and cinching the waist as tight as his belt would allow. One of these days, he promised himself, he would exchange some of his wizard's gold for Muggle money and buy some clothes that fit; there was really no need to keep wearing his obese cousin's hand-me-downs. But that was, of course, unnecessary and extravagant for now. What was more important was that Voldemort and his Death Eaters be stopped, and if he had to do so while wearing pants that he could have folded in half twice and still probably worn, then so be it. Shaking his head ruefully, Harry attempted to run a brush through the unruly locks, but the result was that his hair merely looked only more tousled than before. Long used to the disaster that was his hair, Harry merely slipped on a tent-like, rather unattractively striped t-shirt that hung almost to his knees. He'd get some tea, maybe some breakfast, and then tackle Occlumency again. Not that he expected better results, but it was worth a try.

With the long-legged, slightly ungainly stride of a young man adjusting to the increased height of a rather sudden growth spurt, Harry took the stairs two at a time as he bounded after breakfast. Lupin was probably awake already, though Harry probably could have stood to be quieter in his descent. As he neared the final steps, however, the sound of a woman's sneeze caught his attention and he froze with reflexes honed from constant danger, hovering two steps from the foyer. The sneeze had come from the drawing room, where the fireplace was. So it was probably an Order member, then, as no one else could get in. Harry had been worried about the safety of Grimmauld Place with Dumbledore's passing, but Lupin hadn't seemed in the least concerned. Apparently, someone else other than the Headmaster had become the building's Secret Keeper. At least, that was what Harry thought, but he was fully prepared to admit to not knowing the slightest about the Fidelius Charm. They were supposed to learn a bit about it this year, but Harry's mind was not on normal NEWT curriculum. He had Horcruxes to destroy.

Fighting back his own sneeze, the raven-haired boy-hero paused on the steps, careful not to take a step down to the next stair, which he knew from previous experience to be the squeakiest one of the lot (and also the one most prone to awaken Mrs. Black). If this was an important meeting, he didn't want to interrupt, particularly as he probably wasn't supposed to be awake this early. Curiousity, however, held him in place.

"How is he, Remus?" Minerva McGonagall Vanished the soot clinging to her robes with an idle wave of her wand, smoothing the wrinkles a moment later as she stepped from the hearth. She had never been fond of Floo travel: the powder always made her sneeze. As she turned to survey the werewolf currently handing her a cup of tea, she noted the tired lines about his eyes and the weight of responsibility and old illness that lingered on his thin form. There was no need to elucidate whom she was referring to.

Remus stood, indicating one of the chairs in a display of hospitality that was rather unnecessary, given the status of the house as Headquarters and his own lacking claim to its ownership---with Sirius' death, the house was Harry's. His expression was mild, a bare hint of a welcoming smile on chapped lips as he retook his seat, the newly elected Hogwarts Headmistress following suit. The Scottish woman lifted her teacup to her lips, inhaling the soothing aroma before indulging in a gentle sip.

"As well as can be expected, Minerva," Remus responded quietly. "He is still mourning Sirius' death too, after all. And though I don't think Harry was ever openly fond of his uncle, the man was still his relative. He's coping, but then, he has a remarkable ability to do that." The unspoken rebuke, that Harry should not have _had _to develop that ability, hung darkly in the air. Despite herself, Minerva winced. She had _told _Albus, all those years ago, that leaving Harry in the care of those Muggles was a mistake. The first of many, she supposed, heaving a mental sigh. What was done was done.

"Things are only going to get worse, Remus. You know that." Her tone was gentle, but firm. They needed to accept this _now_. Without Albus, defeating the Dark Lord was going to be an extraordinarily difficult task----one Minerva wasn't sure they would be successful in completing, though she would never announce her harbored fears and misgivings. Dumbledore's death had left ripples in many things, the morale of the Light only one of them.

"I know, but, _bloody hell, _Minerva, he's only _sixteen_." As the Transfiguration professor looked over at her former colleague and student, she thought that Lupin never looked so much like the wolf he harbored than when he was concerned over Harry. Little wonder, she reasoned, as the boy was all the werewolf had left of either blood or adopted family.

"I'm not suggesting we throw Harry into You---_Voldemort_'s," here the stern woman pursed her lips in an expression often seen by recently-caught, troublesome miscreants in the castle, as if saying the man's name was still a chore, "grasp, Remus. I _know _he's only sixteen. But I've also had him in my House for the past six years. If he thinks that someone he cares for is in danger, he'll throw _himself _at Voldemort's feet."

Harry, for his part, as he listened from outside the drawing room door, thought that McGonagall's estimation of him was slightly unfair. He _did _stop to think, usually, before running off. Still, his conscience niggled at him (with a voice that sounded oddly like Hermione), forcing him to admit to himself that he did often go running off anyway. The Philosopher's Stone, first year, came to mind, as well as the subsequent years and their trials. He'd raced off to the Chamber of Secrets second year---though, in his defense, he reasoned, he _had _tried to enlist the help of his DADA professor. It wasn't his fault that the man was a fraudulent ass. He'd saved Sirius third year. Fourth year, which he still had nightmares over, he didn't have much choice, really. If he'd had one, he definitely wouldn't have volunteered to be in that creepy cemetery with Wormtail slicing cuts in his arm after killing Cedric. Fifth year….was still too painful to think about, and it expressed McGonagall's observation clearly. He _had _merely run off after his Godfather without much in the way of asking for help, and he _had _nearly gotten the students with him killed. They hadn't died, but it had been a narrow escape, and Sirius had died instead.

Remus let out a sharp exhale, pulling a cup of the warm tea to himself and moodily scrutinizing the ripples in the dark surface of the hot liquid. The war was draining in every way, perhaps more, than it had been the first time. Then, at least, Dumbledore had still been a beacon of strength and hope, someone for the Order and the greater Wizarding public to follow and whose shadow said public could take refuge in as the weariness of battle settled upon their shoulders. That refuge no longer existed. Rather, the hopes and fears of the public rested upon the slight form of a sixteen-year-old who as short and rather scrawny from years of neglect and malnourishment because that boy had saved them all just after his first birthday. It was cruel to thrust the child into the heart of battle, Prophecy be damned. The very thought raised the man's hackles: if he were in wolf form, his fangs would have been bared.

"I fear you're right, Minerva," he said at last, forcibly calming himself with the scent of lavender that flavoured the tea. "And I'm uncertain what scares me more----that Harry would race off to face Voldemort, or that he might be destined to do so."

McGonagall's expression was vaguely catlike as she surveyed Lupin before she, too, sighed and eased herself into a wooden chair. They could have moved this discussion to the kitchen, but the drawing room was just as comfortable, and a decent distance from the abhorrent portrait in the corridor. Were there breaks in the fighting, Minerva thought that her free time might be devoted to figuring out a way to remove Madame Black permanently.

"In any case, we cannot worry over that now," she murmured, though steel colored her tones. "There are too many concrete concerns, and Harry is safe here, for now. What of his aunt and cousin?"

There was no mistaking the curl of distaste in the normally mild-mannered man's lips as Lupin thought about the bony, horselike woman and her obese child, and the care that they had been assigned to give Harry throughout his life but had instead chosen to withhold.

"I see them perhaps once or twice a day, when they deign to accept a meal from the 'freaks,' as Petunia Dursley so eloquently presents it." The werewolf's tone was dry, but it was obvious he was distinctly unhappy over the situation. Minerva took another sip of her tea.

"We'll figure out what to do with them later. So long as they're not actively hindering Harry's own healing, I'm inclined to let them stay. The decision, in the end, is Harry's, of course." McGonagall sighed softly. "This is his house now. Unfortunate that he moves from one nest of bad memories to another."

Lupin chose not to respond, instead stirring his tea unnecessarily with a small spoon. Sandy brown hair flecked liberally with gray framed his pale features. Though he always carried the look of a tired, almost sickly man, there was more meat on his bones and more color in his skin than there had been in a while. Minerva suspected it was Nymphadora's influence, but knew better than to comment. She knew the man's troubles all too well. It had taken him some time to find a measure of solace and peace upon Sirius Black's incarceration years ago, and it had been Nymphadora Tonks who was responsible for a large portion of it. Though there was a significant age difference between the pair, their friendship had built slowly and steadily as the lycanthrope nursed his wounds over what he saw as his lover's betrayal of both himself and their family. And many years later, that friendship had become shyly romantic. Minerva had never been surprised, really. In fact, she was glad that the man had found a measure of happiness. But then, less than three years ago, Sirius Black had been found innocent, bringing all those emotions to the fore. Remus didn't talk about it, of course, but the problem was quite obvious. The man was torn between two loyalties and two loves, as well as his own self-chastisement for allowing himself to believe in Pettigrew's deception. Nonsense, the lot of it. She sympathized with his torment, but Minerva was far more fond of her sensible, Professor's life than she ever would have been with family and spouse.

"In any case, Remus, discussing Harry is not why I'm here. At least, not entirely," she amended, finishing off the cup in front of her before refilling it. "If there had been any doubt about…Albus' death," here her voice cracked slightly, "there can be no more. His will was unsealed, Remus, and part of it pertains to Harry."

Outside, Harry blinked, hovering still on his stair in his overlarge clothes with his messy hair and intent, but slightly dumbfounded expression. What did Dumbledore want with him in his will? He hadn't necessarily liked it, but he had understood being Sirius' heir, as he was the man's godson, but what did Dumbledore have? Did it pertain to the Horcruxes? The prophecy? Would it help him defeat Voldemort and Snape and stop more killings from happening? Blinking, he rubbed at his bright green eyes beneath his glasses and stared at the door, wondering what his professor had to say so early in the morning.

"Harry?" the werewolf repeated, glancing up at the woman who had one been his teacher and was now his peer, "Albus had a tendency to be eccentric from time to time, but in a matter such as this…"

"Albus was always fond of the boy, Remus, you know that. And, really, I'm not even entirely sure what the man meant to do, but I have the instructions for Harry here. Is he asleep?" The woman was once more brisk, stern, and businesslike. She had to return to Hogwarts to continue preparing for the school year and to help plan the retaliation of the Order to the latest Death Eater raid. Things were not looking well for the Wizarding community. Notable figures such as Ollivander were still missing, and others were dead. Voldemort and his supporters were growing steadily bolder and stronger as the resolve of the people waned, flowing into panic and hysteria. The attack on the Dursley home was almost an open declaration of war. With Dumbledore dead, Voldemort was no longer holding back, and the thought aged the Headmistress of Hogwarts beyond her years with an intense world-weariness and determined resolve. They had defeated him before. They could do so again.

"Probably," Lupin responded, pushing himself to his feet and ignoring the pops and cracks of a few of his joints. Even with Wolfsbane---a product that was increasingly hard to come by now, what with Severus turned traitor and shops closing their doors--- his transformations pulled more and more from him with each successive month. If he did not fight so hard, then perhaps he would have been more at peace with himself and less in pain, like Greyback, but Lupin would never lower himself to that creature's level. Not even to lessen his own pain. Without Wolfsbane, Lupin was a monster three nights a month. Fenrir was never human.

"Let me get him." He nodded over at the older woman, before opening the drawing room door. Upon hearing it slide, Harry froze momentarily on his stair, not wanting to let on that he had been listening in but at the same time wanting to know more. Well familiar with the habits of his charge, it didn't take Lupin more than a casual glance to know that his conversation had been overheard. Warm, brown eyes swept over the boy, before the man sighed.

"Very well. Come on, Harry. I don't know how much you heard, but Professor McGonagall has something for you." He surveyed the youth, who hastily nodded his head and took the last two steps at once before stopping at his surrogate godfather's side, looking up into the tired, weathered visage.

"Thank you," he said softly, just loud enough for Remus to hear, before preceding the older man into the drawing room where McGonagall waited. Though he disagreed about being a child---he hadn't been a child since he was eleven, or earlier, in his estimate--- it was somewhat nice to know that there was at least one person who wanted to protect and guard him in an almost parental fashion. Not that Harry was going to delude himself into becoming accustomed to the sensation.

As he shuffled into the room, he lifted his head and adjusted his glasses to see his Transfiguration teacher in one of the wooden chairs at a small table with tea, and he nodded to her. As sleepy as he still was, the tea she was holding gave off a wonderfully tempting appeal.

"'lo, Professor McGonagall," he offered up mid-yawn, nervously taking a seat as Lupin shut the door and followed suit. How much did Professor Dumbledore's will tell her? Did she know about the Horcruxes? Harry wouldn't tell her, but that didn't mean Dumbledore hadn't. If she knew, if Remus knew, they would try and stop him from doing what had to be done. But Dumbledore had imparted to him the importance of his task before he was murdered, and Harry intended to carry it out. No one would be safe until Voldemort was dead, and his uncle's death had only pounded the necessity of that lesson more deeply upon the youth's heart. He wasn't even going to let Ron or Hermione, and definitely not Ginny, come along if he could help it. It was bad enough losing Sirius, losing Professor Dumbledore. Harry didn't think he could bear it of something were to happen to his closest friends or Ginny because of his poor direction and guidance. They'd already nearly died for him once in the Department of Mysteries. He wasn't about to let that happen again.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said crisply, though her tone and expression was a bit more gentle than she would normally allow it to be in class. She was not a mean woman, but she was strict and stern. "As your expedience to arrive would attest, I'm assuming you were listening outside the door?" She didn't appear to be rebuking him, so Harry nodded. If anything, she had sounded merely exasperated, as if she were used to this sort of behavior from him and expected it. Which, Harry reasoned, was probably not that far from the truth.

"Yes Ma'am. I was about to come in for breakfast when I heard you and Professor Lu---er, Remus--- talking, and didn't want to interrupt." Remus raised an eyebrow, as if stating that they both knew that Harry had been more curious than anything else. McGonagall seemed to know that, too.

"Very well then. Now, you know that Professor Dumbledore was fond of you, Harry," her voice softened for the first time. "When he…died, he left you something in his will. I'm sorry to say that I don't know what it is, or what use you will find for it, but Albus was quite firm in making sure you received it."

Perhaps it _was _something to do with the Horcruxes then, if McGonagall didn't know what it was. Had Professor Dumbledore located intelligence of any of the others? They'd already taken care of the diary and the ring, but the locket was missing, and there was still the snake and the cup and something of Gryffindor's or Ravenclaw's… He blinked almost owlishly at his professor, confusion evident on his features. Even as much as he hoped it was guidance from beyond the grave that the old wizard had wanted to impart, he still couldn't help the anxiety clawing in his belly.

"Here you are, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said, pulling from a pocket of her stately robes a small, slender glass vial. Inside of it, shimmering in the light, was a remarkable silver substance that Harry dimly recognized, but couldn't place.

* * *

Lots of little threads have been started in the past two chapters, some of which were not originally intended. Ah, well. Outlines are flexible things... 

And, though I'm writing for myself, a little review or two is always nice as well. I'm not one of those silly people that refuses to update over reviews, but they do help me feel more self-confident about my characterizations and such. Til next time.

Autumn Ruby


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